


Wind and flame

by skyholdherbalist



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Companions, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, Dalish Issues, Developing Relationship, Duty, Evolving Faith, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Issues, Fantasizing, Fluff, Friendship, Getting to Know Each Other, Healers, Herbalism, Lyrium Addiction, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Religion, Sexual Fantasy, The Chantry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 19:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9457715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyholdherbalist/pseuds/skyholdherbalist
Summary: Finally free of the Templar Order, Commander Cullen wants to break the Chantry's grip on his body.  He finds ease, faith, and perhaps more in the Herald of Andraste, the Dalish Inquisitor who helps to heal him.  But he can't heal her.Inquisitor Lavellan, an herbworker and healer, worries. She worries just how long she can keep herself professional around the Commander.  Whether withdrawal will kill him. Whether her Elvhen identity is slipping away. Whether she'll die in this Inquisition.





	1. In the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A windy night at Skyhold. Cullen is working late, as usual, when Inquisitor Lavellan visits his office. They talk, in depth, for the first time since Haven. Cullen learns a lot about her, and begins to confront some nagging feelings.

Mountain wind howled through the battlements outside and rattled the wooden doors.Cullen liked the cold, but the wind was hard on his joints, and he was glad his bed was here in his office, a short climb away.Though he didn’t hold out much hope of seeing that bed loft anytime soon.

Piles of papers, journals and letters decorated his desk.Requisition reports, filled and naggingly unfilled; scout maps; strategic requests; strategic complaints—every imaginable document needed his approval.Or rather, he needed to approve them all.They had a term for his particular brand of neurotic control, Varric had told him: a pain in the arse.Maybe.He knew his need to check everything could be slow, and he knew he suffered from a chronic lack of trust. It wasn't unwarranted, he reasoned, but it won him few friends. 

His left door shot open and hit the stone wall with a crack.Startled, he hurried to shut it again, barring the loose, rusted latch. 

Back at his desk, he opened a letter from a recent party campaign in the Hinterlands. 

“ _Commander_ ,” it began, “ _I hope this letter, and our recent delivery of requisitioned supplies, finds you well.While I do enjoy exploring this area and learning more about its many resources, I wonder if some others may be more suited to mining drakestone and iron?Something tells me I was not made for the pickaxe.You might achieve better results with someone else._ ”

He smiled.The Inquisitor, polite as ever, even when complaining.She could be distant at times, but always nice.He hated, for her sake, to think they may have that lack of trust in common.But he certainly couldn’t blame her for it.He’d have to find someone else for the mining. 

“ _Although if, as a native Fereldan, you know a better way,_ ” the letter went on, “ _please join me next time.Give me the grand tour, as long as we avoid the bears.— Lavellan_ ”

He stared at the letter.The heat seemed to drain from his face, then rush back to his cheeks. _Join me next time._ He idly scratched the back of his neck.

He’d often been a bit envious of those who did join the Inquisitor on her expeditions.They were getting away from here, first of all, on the front lines, seeing interesting parts of Thedas.And they also got to know the Inquisitor better.Spend time with her.Whenever she arrived back he thought, This is the time, things will slow down for her, and I’ll put off some work, we can talk.But it never seemed to happen.Aside from brief professional chats, they hadn’t spoken much since Haven.She’d seemed... interested in him, then.He found himself telling her nearly everything about his life like some Chantry confessor.But like an idiot, he hadn’t asked her a thing in return. 

And then things just got worse.But they hadn’t died yet.Maybe there was still time.

Now the right door creaked open slowly.These damned latches, he thought, standing a bit creakily himself to go close it, when a small knock made him look up. 

“Commander?”Inquisitor Lavellan leaned around the door.Her dark face seemed to glisten in the low candlelight. 

“Inquisitor, come in please,” he said, walking around his desk, pulling out a chair for her.“I didn’t know you were back already.”She walked in and kicked the door closed, her hands behind her back. 

“We just returned, a few hours ago.I hope you don’t mind my visiting so late.”She placed whatever was in her hands on the floor, near the desk.“I don’t want to disturb you.” 

“Not at all,” he reassured her.“That’s not drakestone, is it?” he asked, pointing toward what she’d deposited.

She laughed and shook her head, her reddish braids dancing.“You got my letter already.” 

“Just reading it, in fact.It may take some time, but we’ll gather our best mining experts to aid you,” he said, hoping his mock-seriousness didn’t look like real seriousness. 

She smiled.“Or an expert tour guide.”

He held her gaze.“Perhaps.” 

She tilted her head to one shoulder.“As a matter of fact, my requisition complaints are not why I came to your office.” 

“No?”

She leaned forward in the chair to pick up what she’d brought.It was a fur pouch, drawstring pulled tight at the top, and seemed to clink when she lifted it to her lap.She looked down as she spoke.

“It was to give you this,” she said hesitantly, patting the fur covering.“Before I left this last time, you were looking a bit..." she searched for the right word. "Pale," she settled on. "Have you been well?"

He went a bit cold at that question, but tried to bite back his defensiveness.The lyrium situation, there had been difficulties.Meetings cut short, begging out of social situations. Only Cassandra knew the real reason, though he was fairly certain Leliana could read him thoroughly at this point, as she could everyone.Keeping something like this a secret was vital to the safety and success of the Inquisition.If it didn't kill him in the process.

He searched for a way to answer her without answering her."I'm rather fair-skinned, Inquisitor," he said, forcing a smile."Hence why it just wouldn't do to send me to the Western Approach."

She didn't react, looked directly at him."Cassandra told me you have headaches, sometimes."

There it was.He knew he shouldn't be angry—this is, after all, what he asked Cassandra to do—but she promised to come to him with it.Instead she'd gone right to the Inquisitor and Maker knows who else, ready to drum him out, let her know he'd been slipping, that he's sick, that he should have left already.

"And what other ailments of mine did Cassandra bring to you, hm?"  He meant to say it with some venom, but it just came out defeated.

She narrowed her eyes, but her face was compassionate.“Nothing. We just happened to be eating together and... I was thinking of you.”Her brows wrinkled.“I asked her about you, I hope you don’t mind.”

Maker, he was a mess.Jumping at every perceived slight, suspicious, always on the edge of hurt or anger.Sometimes he felt just like he did after... after Kinloch, as though the intervening years hadn't even existed.Still the same raw nerve.One thing had changed, though, verifiably: now he was at least aware of it.He wasn't sure that might not be worse.

He folded his hands on the desk to steady himself."No, I don't mind."He meant it.

She actually looked embarrassed, as if she had any reason to be.He could sink through the floor."She's known you longer than I have. And I try to avoid the pestering mother hen role, if I can help it."She looked away from him, into a black corner of the room, as if her thoughts were hiding there."Do you know much about the Dalish, Commander?"

The change in subject surprised him.She was the first Dalish he'd ever known.Initially, he'd chalked up some of his... interest in her to that.That, and being the herald of the Maker's prophet.Then saving them all in Haven.There were so many remarkable things about her, it spared him from having to confront any more basic interest on his part.But as the Inquisition had gone on, as she was busier and he saw her less, but wanted to see her more... even he couldn't deny his interest was evolving.And he was quite experienced in denial.

"Ah, no," he answered, "but I'd love to learn more."This was slightly less than truthful.Yes, he did want to know more.But he'd spent part of his little free time learning what he could about the Dalish, and Clan Lavellan, quietly moving a few volumes of Elven history and more recent cultural studies from the library into his office.He'd even given Lieutenant Chambreterre an extra long debriefing after he sent troops to assist her clan with those bandits in Wycome, for more current, on-the-ground knowledge of clan operations and personages.Necessary research for the Inquisition, he reasoned.

"These markings we have, there are lots of different ones, as you've probably seen."She leaned forward a bit in her chair, her eyes sparkling in the low candlelight from his desk.She looked comfortable, even happy.He was glad at that.He briefly wondered how long he could keep her talking, just to give her a break.The break didn't hurt him, either, he supposed.

The light illuminated the grey serpent-like swirls that ringed her eyes and spread down to her chin.They had obviously faded since their original application.The color, a steel grey against the warm sepia of her skin, was soft.He'd seen tattoos that looked fierce, intimidating.Hers had a gentleness that fit her perfectly.

"Dalish get them when we've decided what our role in the clan will be.It's a coming-of-age thing.I got mine at 19." She smiled at the memory."We call them _vallaslin_."

" _Vallaslin_ ," he repeated.He'd come across the term but not heard it spoken, so in his head he'd stressed the syllables incorrectly.

She nodded."They represent what we do but they also mark our relationship to our gods."

"I'd love to know more about the Elven religion," he said eagerly."They don't teach you much about other beliefs in the Chantry."

She smiled. "I would guess not."She pushed one red braid behind her ear."We call them the Creators.Each _vallaslin_ design is for a different Creator.Mine is for Sylaise."

"What does it mean?" he asked, softly.

"Sylaise is the Hearthkeeper. She gave us the burning fire that warms us," she said in a rote, sing-song voice."She taught us to weave the cloth we wear. She showed us the herbs that heal and protect us."She tilted her head from side to side as she performed the little song."Sit at a hearth and you'll find her there."

He laughed."So the Dalish children have to memorize their songs just like little Andrastians."

"Of course," she giggled, "although for only one god you've probably got more songs than all of ours put together."

"Well, there are a lot of Andrastians," he reasoned."Just wait, when the Dalish hero saves the world, there will be more songs honoring her gods.And her," he added, too pointedly, he was afraid.

She closed her eyes, shaking her head."Even if she's still the Herald of Andraste?Doesn't that mean your prophet will get the credit?"

He sighed.He'd puzzled over this before.The Herald of Andraste, the chosen champion of their savior, was also the woman who sat before him.The thoughtful, kind, very real woman.An elf.The hardships, the discrimination the elves faced, it was wrong, that was plain enough.The Chantry-supported bigotry, the burial of the elven role in Andraste's work—that was disgraceful.He'd always thought so.

When he first saw this prisoner, as she was then, after the Conclave, her being elven meant little.When they began calling her the Herald of Andraste... he had some hope that her being an elf may be the start of something important.

"Why can't we have both?" he said."An elven Herald, that could have real impact. It already has."He felt himself on the edge of an unwanted lecture, so he pulled back."It doesn't have to be one or the other," he finished.

She looked at him, her eyes earnest."I hope you're right."They both sat quietly for a moment, a heaviness between them, though not wholly uncomfortable.To him, it felt like a cloud on a dry day, full of welcome rain.

She shook her head, blowing away that cloud.She seemed to do that so easily."Anyway," she smiled, "to walk the way of Sylaise is to be a healer.Herbwork, mostly, not much magic.At least not mage-magic, if that makes sense," she said, twirling one hand in the air, as if that's what mages did."That's what I do when I'm not doing... this."She looked around her, like she could somehow see all of Skyhold from that chair. 

An herbalist, he thought.A healer.Now the effort she spent on building up the courtyard garden had a deeper meaning than just beautification.And the stories he'd heard of her running off paths, scouts dragged up mountains and through rivers following her on the track of some rare herb, they made sense, too.The way some reported it, she'd rather be off picking flowers than sealing rifts, but that was easy to recognize as tired soldiers blowing off steam.He'd been there before, certainly.And just as certainly, they said worse about him.

He had a thought."Doesn't your clan need you for healing?Do we need to send a healer there to help them, while you're here?"He began to run through personnel lists, contacts among the mages, in his head, to find a suitable candidate.

She looked surprised."Thank you for thinking of them.Really.You don't have to worry about them..." she trailed off, but it was more a statement than a directive."No, they're fine. It's a big clan, and I'm not the official healer, just a spare.That's why I was at the Conclave.They could spare me."

"Ah," was all he could say to that.

"So," she said, standing from the chair, lifting the pouch from her lap, "if I ever seem nosy or annoying about someone's health, I'm just staying in practice for after all this is over."Her tone had changed into one he'd heard from healers and medics a hundred times.Careworn, a little patronizing, and impossible to argue.But what she said intrigued him.That she thought her life would just go on, that there would be an anything after this, that this would be over someday.Her faith and certainty warmed him, and he felt a sweet ache in his chest at wondering about that future. 

"Noted, Inquisitor," he said, looking up at her.

She handed him the pouch, and he placed it on the desk in front of him, gently pulling the knot apart in the leather lacing.The fur fell open, exposing a dark green glass vial.He pulled its cork to see it was filled with dried, chopped herbs that still maintained their vibrancy.There was also a larger, clear bottle of amber-colored wine.

"This mix helps with pains, like headaches," she said, gesturing to the bottle."Helps with bad dreams, too."

"Dreams?" he asked abruptly.She can't have known about that, no one knew about that.

She shrugged."In my experience headaches usually come with bad dreams.If you don't have them, that's good.If you do, this should help."

He softened."And the wine?"

"Well, that's to help them go down easier. It's not the most delicious concoction,” she confided."And I thought you might like it."

He noticed her bright red hair darkened in the low candlelight but her eyes shined with a soft glow."Thank you," he said.He had no idea how much of what he was really feeling he could be revealed in one thank you, but he knew his face could never hide anything.This healer, this Herald, and this woman.His feelings about these three sides of her, he feared they were getting very confused.

Then she sat on the edge of the desk, her leathers softly shifting against each other.She leaned forward to take the bottle of herbs from his hand, her face illuminated by the candle, cheeks flushing, her lips glistening.He was certain he was staring but he couldn't look away. She turned the bottle over in her hands.

"This is a mix of prophet's laurel leaves, royal elfroot, and ground felandaris.That elfroot was hard won," she said, peering into the bottle through the dark glass."Way north Hinterlands.Nearly ran into a dragon trying to get that one.But it's damned difficult to grow, and I knew it would help you."

"You gathered these yourself?" he asked, even though he knew the answer. _For me?_ he thought but didn't ask."We do have people who could assist you.All you have to do is give the word," he said.Many times Cassandra and Leliana had told him that the Inquisitor seemed to have no idea of the power she held, the power they'd given her.It was probably better that way, he thought.She had enough to deal with without that extra weight of expectation.

She smiled, a playful, guilty look on her face."I confess I feel the need to do most things for myself," she said.She leaned closer to him."It's one of my poorer qualities, don't tell anyone," she mock-whispered.

He grew suddenly warm.And nervous.But the stronger part of himself decided to lean toward her across the desk."I won't tell a soul," he said, in a low voice.

A quiet moment passed between them.He could hear the cold wind still whipping around the battlements.

She leaned back.“I have to say,” she said as she began to stand up, “I really didn’t expect to find you here this late.Do you ever sleep?”She looked around the mostly empty room.Books, papers, all work.Imagining it through her eyes, he thought how incredibly bare it all looked. 

He stood as well, shaking his head.“Unfortunately not.If I’m not running back and forth to the war room I’m at my desk working on your behalf.”

She turned and squinted at him.“Are you serious?” 

“Well, I eat sometimes, too.” 

“Oh, of course.”She rolled her eyes as she walked over to his bookcases and drifted a finger across a row of dusty volumes. 

He rounded the desk slowly.“Actually my bed’s in here.So no one will know how long I stay up working,” he said, “unless they drop by quite late.” He edged closer to her.

She turned from the bookcase and surveyed the room again.“You sleep here?Where?” 

“Up there.”He pointed to the loft that sat above the back of the room.His loft, with the creaky floor, the hole in the roof, the ivy climbing the stone walls.He found it quite charming. 

He followed her eyes as they went up to the loft, and to the ladder, and back to him."Do you mind?If I take a look?" she asked, grabbing the ladder, only nominally waiting for his consent. 

He leaned against the desk beside him. "No, I don't mind."His mind raced through what embarrassing contents she might see up there.Had he made his bed? Were there smallclothes on the floor? _Oh, Maker_. 

He watched her climb the ladder.Her saddle-brown leather breeches creaked softly as she lifted herself up with ease.It was obvious she was strong, he noticed, particularly her legs.He figured the Dalish had to do a lot of climbing and running, because her legs and her... his face flushing, he turned away and examined the wine she'd given him.Minanter River Honeyed Wine, 9:39, Limited, of the Free Marches.The clear bottle showed the contents, a sparkling gold. 

"Thanks, sorry to impose," she called as she began to descend, "but I guess it's one more room in Skyhold I didn't even know was here."

"This place does feel labyrinthian, at times," he said, putting down the bottle, and crossing his arms."Took me a month to get the War Room straight, I kept ending up in the garden.I still haven't seen everything, I'm sure." 

Midway down the ladder, she stopped and turned around to look at him. She didn't say anything for a moment, so he asked, "Well, Inquisitor, did I pass inspection?"

She scoffed."Absolutely not.Though if I'm to be upholding standards we're all in trouble.I grew up outside with no shoes on."

He laughed. "That sounds nice, actually."It reminded him of being a boy in Honnleath, when he and his siblings always went barefoot, until it was just too cold to stand.Saved on shoes, too."Before I went to the Chantry I wasn't much different." 

"Hmm," she said, and looked at him again.Her expression was pleasant, he thought, but he couldn't read her beyond that. It was intimidating. She turned and continued down the ladder.

"I'm just surprised," she said."I imagined the Commander of the Inquisition in something a bit nicer than a creaky loft."She climbed down slowly.

"You imagined?" he said, too quietly, before he could stop himself. 

She paused at the bottom of he ladder.He could kick himself for saying that out loud.But she turned to face him, her face bright."Ah, well, you know..." she trailed off, waving a hand in the air as if to waft away the tension."Supposedly I am in charge.I should know whether my army commander has a hole in his roof, or if he lives in the lap of luxury."

He snorted."I've spent years in dormitories full of templars, this _is_ luxury."

Standing on the second step of the ladder, a head taller than him, she looked down at him.It felt nice, for a moment, to be smaller than her."I know what you mean," she laughed."Cramped aravels, leaky tents.Funny, I never really thought of them as cramped until all this happened.There's just so much room here. Have you seen where they put me?"

He shook his head.Her room.He'd heard they cleared out and restored a palatial suite for her off the main hall.He could only imagine now that she hated it.That she probably hated it made him smile.She wasn't that person. 

She looked directly into his eyes."Well, I'll have to show you sometime."

His heart began to race. _This can't be happening.Is it happening?Oh, Andraste, forgive me.You sent a herald to save us all and I'm thinking about her bedroom._

She was still looking at him as she began to step off the ladder, and she missed the last rung, stumbling forward.He reached for her and caught her arms with his hands, gripping her shoulders.He held her steady.He didn't intend to but his arms seemed to pull her slightly closer.

She turned toward him.She looked embarrassed again and something else flickered there.Nerves, perhaps.Despite everything, he wasn't sure he'd ever seen her nervous before."Forgive me," she said.Her voice was sad, and he sensed she sought forgiveness for more than just stumbling.

"No need," he said, shaking his head, his voice barely a whisper, still gripping onto her.He realized he was holding her in place.Reddening, he looked down and released his arms.She looked away from him, pushing her braids behind one ear, and took a deep breath.He couldn't move.

But she turned toward him brightly, smiling."I'd better let you get some rest. Take that," she said, pointing at the herbs, "before you sleep.Let me know if it helps."Somehow she'd instantly shifted back into the healer, the Inquisitor.

"Thank you, I will," he promised.

She said goodnight, warm, but officious, and walked toward the door.There she paused and turned. "And Commander?"

He looked at her with blank expectation.

"You'd better light some more candles in here.You'll ruin your eyes."

He nodded solemnly, as if she were a scolding Chantry sister.  She walked out.  The door shutting echoed in the room, then the only sound was candle flame and wind.

As he walked back to his desk and sat down, he suddenly realized two things: one, that he didn't know any name for her other than Inquisitor Lavellan.That he'd never thought to ask was just another testament to his awkwardness.And two, that this was the longest conversation they'd ever had.

He shook some of the herbs from their bottle into a cup on his desk, poured in the gold wine, and stirred with his finger.He sucked clean the wet finger, wrinkling his nose at the strange combination of flavors: bitter green, a milky sugar from the wine, and something more deeply sweet.Sniffing the cup, he took a sip.Not terrible, but probably best drunk in one go, if possible, so he did.Some of the lingering chopped herbs at the bottom of the mixture caught in his throat, making him cough, so he drank a little more of the honeywine straight to get them down.Then a bit more, for good measure.Despite the taste, it was an unexpectedly nice gesture, giving him this remedy.Not that he didn’t expect her to be nice.Just not so generously nice.To him.In particular.

After a few minutes of blinking at the piles on his desk, he realized he couldn’t focus on a single one.To bed, then.Hope for an easy night. 

He stood up to stretch and begin removing his pauldron and braces.As he did, the familiar aches of his day, of his whole adult life, surged through him.His knees and his back felt hard and slow, like grinding millstones.His arms were heavy.And the pain, as he thought of it—he didn’t like calling it something clinical like “withdrawal,” just felt like, well, pain—it seemed to seep into his head up from his neck.He breathed in deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose, bracing for the first cold sting of his usual headaches. 

Just as suddenly, the pain was replaced by a spinning vertigo.This wasn’t typical.His eyes seemed to swim for a moment as the desk, the floor, appeared to shift and jerk around him.He blinked it away.And then, no more pain.No vertigo, either.Even his back and limbs felt a bit lighter.Was there something to this herbed wine?Could it work this quickly?He’d sooner chalk it up to utter exhaustion.Maybe the herbs were making him ill, though.It would be his luck to live through all his training, the Circles, the uprising, Haven—only to die from an allergic reaction.Especially when it was meant as a palliative.And given by one so thoughtful.

As reached for the ladder, he thought of her, when she’d climbed it before.He replayed in his mind when she’d stumbled at the bottom, and he caught her.He’d only touched her once before, when he carried her through the mountains, after Haven.Just like then, she’d felt so delicate in his hands, it shocked him.If he let himself think of it more, it would frighten him. 

In his loft it was cool, warmer than below despite the holes in the ceiling.The wind didn’t often blow _right_ in his direction.He’d left his armor and cloak hanging by his desk, and near his bed he stripped out of his leather breeches and and undertunic, down to his woolen pants.Easing into bed, the worn sheets chilled his back and arms.It felt wonderful, he thought, as his hot, heavy limbs began to relax and sink, and his breathing slowed. 

Just as he turned to blow out his bedside candle, in his mind he saw her face again.As she sat on the edge of his desk and gave him the herbs and wine, she leaned over the candlelight, her brown skin had flushed dark, and her _vallaslin_ seemed to darken, too.He felt his own skin grow warm, even in the cold of the bedloft. 

He also felt the need, a nagging somewhere deep inside him, to put her out of his mind.Especially while he was trying to sleep.But the thought brought him warmth, and ease.Helped on by the wine, it actually made him feel good.He couldn’t remember the last time he felt good.He closed his eyes. 

He should pray, he thought.Pray for her, pray for their cause.Pray he could remember this woman was blessed.Maybe this was more atonement for him.His test, to support her work and not his... desires.Or maybe the Maker really had sent her.Not just to the Inquisition.To him.Leliana told him that love was our greatest gift from the Maker, that we shouldn't be afraid to express it.He'd never heard that from a Chantry sister before, even an ex-sister.But he knew in his heart that he wanted it to be true.

Would it harm him to just think of her?He’d be embarrassed of his thoughts tomorrow.But what do they say about the morning being wiser?He blew out the candle.

He thought of her climbing the ladder.Maker, the sight of her climbing that ladder, to _his_ bed, could probably satisfy him for months.Her feet so gracefully perched on each rung, her strong thighs pulling her upward, her bottom in those brown leather breeches that tightly, but still gently, clung to her curves. 

He bit his lower lip and looked around the dark loft, as if anyone were there to hide from.Old habits die hard, he supposed.It had been a long time since he was this aroused.He pushed down the pants that were straining against him.Freeing himself, he lightly stroked his cock and sighed a ragged breath. 

What would it be like with her?, he wondered.What would he do?What could she do to him? 

He imagined them together, in this bed, her straddling his thighs.Naked, her body a warm brown, but her soft skin would be hot under his hands.Her smooth legs would rub against his hairy thighs, a delicious friction.She’d look down at him, her eyes heavy-lidded but softly glowing in the chilled dark. 

“Please... touch me,” he whispered aloud, to no one.His begging would elicit a slight smirk, then she’d lick her lips and gently take his cock in her slender fingers, one palm at the base, softly holding his balls, the other rubbing the leaking tip, smearing him with his own liquid.He groaned as he did this to himself, pretending his thick, sword-callused hands were hers. 

His hands would be at her hips, one would come down to her thigh and knead the soft flesh there, the other would slide slowly up her side to her small breasts, pausing to finger the light sweat between them, then cupping one, it would fit so perfectly in his hand, and he’d squeeze, and softly pinch and rub her hard, dark nipple.She would bite back a moan, grunting sweetly.The imagined sound made his skin tingle.He stroked himself faster and sighed. 

He would bring his hand down between them, reaching for her.His breath hitched.Two of his fingers would slowly ease into the short, coarse hair and begin to spread her, feeling her.She would gasp and stop stroking him, just hold him in her hands as he explored her.She would be wet, so wet, he would be amazed.And a little proud.He’d raise his fingers to enter her, slowly at first, thrusting gently.She would begin to rock back and forth on his hand as he stared up at her, her eyes closed, neck and chest flushed with heat, her expression displaying equal parts arousal and trepidation.And he knew, as he always knew, that everything he felt would be plain on his face: his nerves, his shock, his desperate need, and something frightening that fluttered between love and worship. 

He would pull out his fingers quickly, and her eyes would fly open.Good.She’d see him bring those fingers to his mouth to taste her. 

In his bed, he sucked on the fingers of his left hand, flicking his tongue against his fingertips as though they were her, as though he really could taste her arousal.Sweet, but a little sour.He squeezed and pulled on his cock harder, and faster.He was going to finish soon.Maker, he didn’t want it to end. 

He would, without a warning, grab her by the hips and pull her forward, position her to sit down on his cock, now as hard and heavy as he could ever remember.She would take it in her hand and slide the head against herself a few times, which would make him groan with frustration.He rubbed the tip again, now dripping wet, aching to come but holding off as long as he could.

Then she would begin to sit, easing down, encasing his throbbing cock into her, inch by inch.He imagined her taking in a sharp breath as he filled her, her shakily exhaling when he was inside her fully.They would stay still, staring at each other, for what would feel like minutes but could only be a moment, saying nothing but asking each other the same silent questions with their eyes:

_Are we really doing this?_

_Yes, don’t you want to?_

_Of course, but aren’t you scared?_

_Isn’t it too late for that?_

She would close her eyes and he would take it as a sign of assent, that they were thinking—feeling—the same thing.He would thrust upward, holding her hips and moving her on top of him.She’d grind herself against him, her hands splayed on his torso, fingering the hair on his chest and stomach.He wouldn’t last long.He couldn’t.It had been so long.

“Oh fuck, Maker, oh,” he moaned, as he came, covering his stomach, and his thighs twitched against the sheets, and all he could think of, all he could see in his mind, was her face.Not this fantasy of her, where he might touch her naked body and feel her hot skin.

Just her face, flushed and sweet, leaning into the candlelight. 

For a few moments, while he caught his breath, he held onto that image of her.If she were here again, if things were different, he’d take her face in his hands, softly kiss her, tell her all he wanted to say but had no talent for doing so...

Then he opened his eyes.Thin moonlight seeped in through the hole in the roof, a gust ripped through the battlements and into the loft.He was suddenly cold.He got out of bed and cleaned himself at his wash basin, then put on a woolen shirt.Climbing back into the bed, he shivered.But his head, his body still did not ache. 

The cold night sobered him.He felt at first a loneliness that he feared may turn to self-pity, which he despised.So he shoved it away.Then there was some guilt—over thinking of her this way, over his feelings for her, some built-in guilt from his Chantry days.That, too, he buried. 

He was a practical man, skilled in strategy.He knew he had two options.Be professional, realize that these kind of relations were just not in the stars for him, and move on with the simple task of saving the world from evil would-be god magisters and changing their society for the better.No complications there.

Or, perhaps, he could, gently, quietly, let her know.Not a pursuit, he could never.But in his own way, he could attempt it.So much had changed with the Inquisition.Why not this, too?

Maybe it was the wine.Maybe it was the lack of pain.But—strangely—he felt the smallest flicker of optimism.One guttering candle flame of hope. 

Lying there in the dark, he prayed.Let it be enough.


	2. Rooting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor Finn Lavellan takes some time to herself in the courtyard garden, reflecting on her attraction to a certain human military commander, and all the reasons why—despite what her mind and body want to tell her—it just isn't a good idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing sexy here! Unless you find gardening as sexy as I do. Also a big know-it-all egg.

Late day sun slanted into the courtyard garden and the surrounding stone walls seemed to echo the light, casting a dusky glow in one corner, a sharp, glaring beam in another.The garden had good light for much of the day, unlike the Skyhold thoroughfares, dim even at midday, with muddy, puddled ground which never seemed to dry.Finn had made time today to look over the garden, even _scheduled_ it with Josephine, who insisted that Adan and Elan were more than capable of anything garden-related, and wouldn't it be preferable to instead prepare for her dinner with the new Arlessa of Edgehall?Finn politely requested some time alone now, so she might be prevented from screaming for it later.Josephine relented. 

And here, though the courtyard was a popular spot, she was mostly left alone.She could crawl around in the beds, plucking ripe berries here or a green shoot there, tasting, sniffing, hands in the dirt.She wasn't sure what it said about her that she felt most like herself truffling behind a bush like a wild nug.

Though it was probably not the image of the Inquisitor that made it into the recruiting pamphlets, no one here seemed to make much of her on hands and knees, digging, planting, scraping out seeds, sampling leaves.She was sure most chalked it up to her being Dalish.Gardening is a typical enough hobby, but her style was not the gloved, tool-laden, decorative sort.This was a working garden, and though it was beautiful, it was meant to produce, to be used.It was also her goal to keep it as wild as possible.No elegantly pruned bushes or neat little beds of flowers that fit just so.Leggy wildflowers leaned into the narrow dirt paths, fruit-laden vines worked their way into and around and through the stone walls, and the whole courtyard buzzed with life.

She relished being able to see the progression of the plants, day to day, or week to week, if she could stay at Skyhold that long.In the past, she'd left her gardens behind, only an occasional visitor.Clans traveled by nature, and by necessity, but many had their set routes.Clan Lavellan typically followed a path which, if mapped, would look like a lumpy figure eight, circling the rural settlements of the east Free Marches, sometimes dipping into the shoreline cities.They had marked valleys and stone-wrapped glens which were good places to settle for a few months, usually empty, with clean water and large enough to house them for a while.Finn had her own map, marking their herb stores along the route, where wild fruit and herbs were best foraged and encouraged, and the gardens they planted, then left.Later, the clan would harvest from an earlier planting, at another point on the route.That the crop bounty could be taken by anyone who found it, beast or human—well, that was part of the point.They took with them what they needed and the rest was free.They didn't count on needing what they couldn't carry.When they returned, they used what was still there and planted again. 

So with just one garden, Finn was making the most of it.She'd considered taking advantage of the light on the stairways and battlements—no obstructions there, just full sun, and even if the wind was chilly there were plenty of herbs that could take it—but she thought they'd better remain unobstructed.For military purposes.Certainly the Commander would probably prefer they remain clear of overflowing herb pots. 

The thought of him stopped her midway through knocking clumps of reddish clay from a tangled root ball.Outside their war room discussions, she hadn't spoken with Commander Cullen in a few weeks.Not since she'd visited him that night with herbs, and wine, to suss out what was the reason for his headaches.And other intentions slightly beyond her role as a healer.

Once she found him there, tired and harried, no end in sight to his long day, she'd thought to stay longer, to share the wine with him.To perhaps see his pale cheeks flush, maybe get a genuine, hearty laugh out of him.Maybe more. 

But as they talked, she grew nervous, hesitant.More than once since this whole thing began, she'd wanted to make her feelings... more obvious.She'd been intrigued with him since the first time he smiled at her in that dusty chantry back room in Haven.Put plainly, she wanted him, in a way she'd never wanted anyone before.She genuinely hoped she wasn't as expressive as she feared, because every time she had a chance to just look at him, it stirred something in her.Something fiery, without reason, that she feared she couldn't control.

Frustrated, she slapped her hand hard against the root ball she held.Dusty soil freed itself from the roots in a cloud, making her cough.

Thenel had stressed to her, in the early days of her apprenticeship, that to be a healer, you had to look at people with detachment.Finn had been a healer now for almost fifteen years, totaling up her apprenticeship under Thenel, the clan healer, and working alongside him now.He was the age her father might have been.He was handsome and strong, and dedicated.And in those early days, she found herself distracted by him, in ways that had nothing to do with her education. 

Once she had journeyed with him to another clan, for a healer's trade, to share herbs and salves.Their trip wasn't very long—a few days' trek south to a valley where Clan Sabrae was camped.The second night grew suddenly cold, and they huddled together around their fire. 

As he held her near, she had a sudden fit of nerves, and her face reddened."Are you so cold, da'len?" he asked gruffly.He could obviously feel her shaking.

She looked up at him, his face so close."No, I'm all right," she said, looking into his eyes, hoping for something to shift between them.

He studied her for a moment, seemed to map her face.Then his eyes hardened with amusement."You look as if you want me to kiss you," he said, laughing.The blood drained from her face, and he closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I helped deliver you, you know," he said, warmly, "back when I was the apprentice.Just after, you got this terrible rash on your bottom.Your mother had to salve it every day, and I had to examine you.Thoroughly."

She sat stone silent, wishing she could fall asleep and pretend this conversation never happened.But Thenel had pressed on."This is actually a valuable lesson for you, Little Finn.As a healer, you deal with people differently. You can't always choose the type of relationship you have with them," he said."Once you've studied the way bodies work and how to mend them, you see things with a different eye.It's not always pleasant.For example, when I see you, sometimes I can only think about your puffy, red baby backside."

"Oh, creators," she had sighed, and covered her face with her hands.

But he was right.He was always right.And she made great strides in her detachment.Though it may have been detrimental to her personal life, she knew she'd made the right choice to walk _vir atish'an_.To help those who needed it.She didn't yet know what was ailing Cullen, but she knew he needed her help more than her desire. 

Of course, there was also the matter of him being human.

Lavellan was a large clan, near a hundred elves traveling together.That made them an unmissable target if you were looking for one, which forced the clan to contend with humans on a more regular basis than most of the other Dalish.They traded with them, offered their services and sometimes worked in settlements and even cities, if it struck them as beneficial.

There had been some flirtations among the younger, unbound ones and the human merchants.They'd been snuffed out.Not forcefully, but firmly.A Bad Idea.The old saws repeated themselves. _They don't respect us.They'll just use you.The children won't even look elvhen._ Finn accepted this without much question.Her dealings with humans had been absolutely neutral.After the Conclave, when she really had no choice but to stay and deal with this... thing, and this strange power inside her, the humans she got to know were friendly.Moral.Good.Sincere.She liked them.But no human had ever made her feel the way Cullen did.

Talking with him, those long distracting, conversations they'd had crunching through the hard snow at Haven, she'd wanted to dig into his mind, his past, find the thing she knew she would find, get him to say the thing she knew he would say, that would make her dislike him.Something about elves, something about his religion, or hers, something just so utterly, obliviously human that she could say to herself, _There you go, Finn, now move on and stop thinking about the pretty human._ It never happened.

She asked and asked, more personal—more intrusive, really—than she'd been with anyone else in this Inquisition.There wasn't much he wouldn't answer, he opened himself to nearly anything she asked.But when her questions turned to the Blight, he closed up and pulled away, grew small, as though the mere idea was like an animal who'd bitten him, and he was wary.She didn't press, but whatever it was made her want to comfort him like a hurt child.Then she would see him leading a drill, sweat beading on his brow and near that scar on his lip, and she wanted other things. 

Finn had always been thankful for her coolness, her ability to stay detached. That she'd reached 33 years without a serious attachment was, undoubtedly, a consequence of that.But Cullen was testing it.She wanted to be icy around him, but instead she was dry kindling to his fire.She had to admit, he'd done nothing to stoke that flame.Nothing but be himself.Unfortunately, that was all it took. 

What he had done is be gentle.She had more than an inkling that he shared at least some of her thoughts about the two of them.Thank the creators, he’d never acted on them.He wasn't cool or detached, his feelings were often plain to see, but he could control himself.Seeing him react to her, and then pull back, close up, made her want to do the same.For both their sakes.She just wasn't sure how long she could match his composure.

A shadow settled above her, shading her work."Lethallan," a soft voice said. 

Turning on her knees, she found Solas standing in her light.She blinked up at him."Lethallin," she replied.She clapped the dirt from her hands and, removing the scarf from her neck, wiped the sweat from her forehead.Shaking thoughts of the Commander from her mind, she smiled up at him."And what are you up to this afternoon?" 

Solas held his hands behind his back, observing the surroundings, eyes narrowed in the bright sun, his pale skin shining.He smiled back."Enjoying the garden, like everyone else."He brought his hands up to shade his eyes and moved toward a bench near the bed where Finn was digging."The work you and the apothecaries have done here is marvelous."He sat, lowering himself into the shade.

"Thank you."The constant visitors made it obvious that this was a well-loved part of their odd mountain fortress, but it was still nice to hear. 

"What is this plant you're engrossed in?" he asked.

"Mountain heaven."She plucked a ruffled purple flower from the shrub and handed it to him."The leaves make a lovely sweet tea.Would you like some?"

He shook his head, grimacing."No, thank you, I do not care for tea."

She gave him a disgusted frown, a look she'd picked up from Cassandra. 

He sighed, bringing the flower to his nose and closing his eyes as he sniffed."May I enjoy simply being around these plants, and forego ingesting them?"

"I suppose," she said, turning back to her plant, brushing loose dirt from a shallow root. 

He sat quietly, stroking the soft leaves of a low patch of wild grass, seemingly content to stay despite her judgment.She liked Solas, though they butted heads on almost every issue, from something as innocuous as tea to what he thought of her Dalish culture.She sensed he liked her as well.She was often the only person willing to entertain his stories of the Fade, something that genuinely interested her, having no magical abilities herself.And she was intrigued that he, an apostate, and an elf, was so comfortable around humans.She could only imagine that in his shoes she'd have crawled into the nearest hole to hide.But he volunteered himself, had become invaluable.She considered him very brave.

Finn carefully picked at the dirt surrounding the roots and began easing them up from the ground, readying to cut them for propagation.She glanced at Solas, sitting quietly in an easy meditation."I have an odd question for you, Solas," she said.

"From you, those are my favorite kind," he said warmly.

"When you meet spirits in the Fade," she began, "the ones you get to know, I mean... are they human?"

"They are spirits," he answered, slightly confused.

"I mean, do they appear to you as human?Like Cole?Or as an elf, perhaps, because you're an elf?"

He looked into the distance."They have various guises.Some are completely formless, only something I can sense, while others are very much a recognizable shape.Many appear as human or elf.I'm not positive they take my form into consideration when they choose theirs."He turned to her."But it's an interesting idea." 

"Which do you prefer?" 

He narrowed his eyes, trying to head off her train of thought.He did that, often moving far ahead of anywhere she intended to go."I have no preference." 

She thought for a moment, trying herself to understand what she was asking, why she was asking it.She turned back to her shrub roots."I know you don't see yourself as elvhen, so to speak, though I can't really see why, I must admit," she trailed off, almost talking to herself.Her fingers wrapped under a tightly bound root, snapping little shoots away from the ground."Do you have any issue with humans?"

She didn't look up but heard him laugh softly to himself."Not really.I know the Dalish seem to resent them, as some reminder of what was stolen from them, their ancient heritage," he said in a mock-serious tone.Despite herself she had to admit that sounded a bit like her Keeper."But--" he began, and stopped his thought from finishing aloud."But that can't be the whole truth.So to answer what you didn't ask, I see the Dalish fears about humans as silly propaganda." 

Glancing toward him, she saw him spinning the flower in his hand while he looked at her, his eyes challenging her to argue.She accepted."What about elves in the alienages?Do you think they're silly to fear humans?"Under the bush she snapped more rootlings from the ground, ripping up a long dark string."You know we Dalish do deal with humans regularly.We don't just sit in the woods weaving baskets or whatever people seem to think." 

"I think there's reason to fear anyone who threatens you, or has harmed you.But there's even better reason to find a path which breaks the hold that fear has placed on you."

"They've tried that before," she said."So have we.  And I wouldn't have thought you felt that way." 

He shook his head, looking past her at the garden."I cannot say what I think now.Only that I, like anyone else, see the problem, but not yet the solution."He turned to her."Perhaps Andraste's Herald could help to alleviate some of these tensions," he said with a mischievous smirk. 

She gave him what she hoped was a withering look."Surely you, of all the people here, aren't going to make me a prophetess for a god I don't even follow?"

"And what god do you follow?"He leaned back, arms crossed. 

"None," she shrugged.

"Ah.But is that not the mark of Sylaise upon you?"

She wiped her hands on her breeches."I can't speak for any other Dalish, as much as you want me to," she said, and he smiled at that."But I'm not religious about the creators.It's cultural.I don't worship them.I don't pray to them.I don't know that they exist or ever did.They're a pretty metaphor to explain how we choose to live."She felt her heart beat a bit faster, realizing she'd never quite said this aloud to anyone. 

Solas nodded."An intriguing answer.You've surprised me." 

She rolled her eyes, not sure if he ever knew how condescending he sounded.But she wasn't offended, just a good-natured annoyance.It felt... familial.It reminded her of home, of her clan."Since you seem to know everything," she teased, "I'll take that as a compliment." 

He laughed."Well, I do know this.You are most drawn to what you can feel, and smell, and hold in your hands.What you directly experience.But there is more out there, if you are willing to look." 

Finn was quiet, conceding his point on both counts.

He stood up into the sunlight, holding the flower, reaching for the bush."Do you mind if I take another?" he asked."This color is fascinating.I'd like to try to replicate it in paint." 

"Of course not, as long as you show me your results." 

"Naturally," he said. 

She sat back on her feet."What about you?" she asked, looking up at him.The low sun glinted off his head and shined through the tips of his ears, glowing them red."Has your Fade walking made you too jaded to believe in gods?"

He squinted into the sun."Perhaps?I'm not much interested in gods." 

"You not interested in something?Now you've surprised me."

He shook his head, laughing."I am like you," he said."I am interested in what I experience, though my experiences are quite different.And if I meet a god, you will be the first to know." 

She sighed.He was impossible. 

"I meant it earlier, about Andraste's Herald," he said."It could be a very good thing." 

She blinked, her mind reeling a bit at hearing that again."Commander Cullen told me the exact same thing," she said.

His eyebrows raised."And that is also intriguing," he said, smiling slowly, clearly thinking."He is a man of great faith.Perhaps he can see the larger hand in this." 

Now she really was surprised."You mean the Maker?"

"I'm always open to new ideas.So should you be."He sniffed his flowers and just slightly bowed to her, smiling."Good afternoon, Inquisitor." 

When he left, she found herself alone with her thoughts again.Thoughts of the Commander, as had been her thoughts when Solas arrived.She was annoyed at her own mind for circling back around to a distraction, as opposed to the league of Thedas-shattering problems before her.Perhaps time alone was not what she needed, after all.She left the garden and headed for her room, to clean up and find Josephine, to prepare for that Arlessa.To get back to work.

 

 

 


	3. Curling up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Cassandra have a talk, then get together with Leliana and Finn at the tavern to share a few drinks, and a few awkward moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for kudos, I die for comments, let me know what you think. Maker bless you :p

"Faster," Cullen said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.He leaned his elbow on the battered straw dummy."I think you can still go faster."He felt pointy bristles, dislodged from the straw man, stuck in his hair and struggled to pick them out.His hair, these days flattened literally with a lick and a prayer, grabbed and held onto everything within proximity. 

Cassandra panted and stuck the end of the dulled practice sword in the mud, leaning on the hilt.Her sharp face was flushed, and the braid crowning her head was rebelling."Not sure I agree with you. Anything else?"

He began to speak but breathed in straw dust, so he choked and spat first."When you thrust from two horned guard, you're only using your arms, not your body."He moved in front of the dummy and lifted his own sword into position, holding the hilt in both hands, left hand leading.From chest-height, he thrust the blade forward to the straw head, leaning over as his arms shifted away from him."It puts you off balance, all your weight is in front, and your head is down."He pulled back into the starting position, this time thrusting forward with his legs and groin as well as arms. 

"See the difference?Put your—“He hesitated and closed his eyes tight.They were friends, but he couldn't talk to her the way he scolded the troops."Put your _rear_ into it." 

Cassandra frowned at him."My rear is none of your concern, I assure you," she said, gripping the hilt and swinging the dull blade up to rest on her shoulder."But I see your point."

It was hot and, worse, humid.Though no sun shone directly on the little scrap of yard where Cassandra liked to practice, a dense heat had settled over Skyhold, preceding a thunderstorm that would soon arrive.The air was still, and lately the heat lingered even into the night.Cullen prayed for a breeze. 

He'd had no need to put on his mantle and gloves today, and when Cassandra suggested an early-evening practice, he'd removed his armor and sashes and left them in his quarters.Walking around in his undershirt was cooler, if it left him feeling slightly vulnerable, but leather breeches were not made for this weather.That's when he realized he'd ordered two pairs of these, and no other trousers, when he'd left Kirkwall.He had prepared for the weather near the Frostbacks.Skyhold had strange weather patterns, skipping from frosts to hot humid days like this with hardly a transition. 

Josephine kept threatening him with newly tailored clothes for their upcoming visit to Val Royeaux and this blighted ball.He would wear what she wanted—there was no point arguing with her when her mind was set—but he hoped that, though Maker knew he could use it, she wouldn't get him anything else.He didn't want to seem ungrateful, but whatever she chose for him might be... _shiny_.

Cassandra, too, was feeling the heat.She squatted low in her boots, wiping the sweat from her face and neck with a handkerchief, and loosened her shirt where it tied at the collar."I'm done.This weather is unbearable," she moaned."I hope it breaks tonight."She plopped down onto the ground and stretched her legs in front of her, tossing the practice sword away into the weedy grass."Last time we had a storm, it was wonderful.I watched it from inside the gatehouse and you could see it coming for miles. So much lightning." Her eyes shone like an excited child. 

Cullen bent to pick up her discarded sword, and stacked it along with his against the dummy's stand."Sounds a bit frightening," he said.

"Yes," she smiled, "in a good way. But you know who must have the most amazing view?" she asked, leaning back on her elbows and looking up at the greying sky."The Inquisitor.She has windows and balconies all around her room."

He felt a tug inside him when Cassandra mentioned her.It had been a busy month.He'd barely seen her.She had left again, the day after they spoke in his quarters.And again he asked himself why he stayed behind to command from here, why he didn't go out into the field, with her.But he could answer himself, too: in this state, he wasn't in good condition.He was a liability.He could feel it while he was practicing with the dummy earlierEverything too slow, too cautious.The ability was still there, but his body wasn't up to the task.He might put people in danger, worst of all he might put _her_ in danger.She was the most necessary of all of them, with that dreadful mark on her hand.But there was more to it than that.What drew him to her was also what kept him away.

She had been back, and gone, and back again now, and he'd still not been able to build on what he hoped might have begun in his quarters that night.

"She asked me about you, you know."Cassandra broke through his muddled thoughts, and he turned to her."Some time ago now," she said with a teasing smile. 

Cullen had some experience in disarming smug older sister types. "I know," he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the dummy."She told me." 

Cassandra raised her eyebrows."Did she?"She sat up and crossed her legs."When?"

He narrowed his eyes."Some time ago now," he said dryly."You told her I get headaches.I was rather cross with you for a moment, actually.I thought you'd told her about... everything."He glanced around them to see if anyone else was within earshot.Save for a laughing trio walking away from the Herald's Rest, no one was around. 

She glanced sidelong at him."I would not do that.That is entirely up to you."

"I know," he said apologetically.

She picked away bits of grass stuck to the palms of her hands."She was keen to know if you were well or not, so I said headaches.It seemed safe enough."

"Thank you, Cassandra," he said, "honestly."He rolled up the sleeves of his undershirt and fanned it away from his chest to move some air."She gave me something for headaches.It's worked rather well."He looked down at the grass and smiled softly. 

He could feel Cassandra staring at him."What did she give you?" she asked, resting her chin on her fist.

He sat down under the dummy, leaning back uncomfortably against its post.When Cassandra wanted to know something, it was best to tell her.But he didn't have to tell her everything."She came to see me when you got back from the Hinterlands last month.She had an herbal remedy for me."He decided not to tell her about the wine."Did you know she's a healer?She's trained for years," he said, hoping to move the subject toward the Inquisitor, and away from him. 

Cassandra listened, nodding."I did know a little about that, yes," she said slowly."So she came to see you?" she asked, leaning forward."She made this remedy for you?" 

He paused."Yes." 

"And?"

"And what?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes."What did you two talk about?Was it a nice visit?"

He sighed."Not very much, and yes."Maker, if Mia only knew there was another her around to dig into his life.He wasn't sure whether she'd be happy or jealous. 

"I see," she said, obviously dissatisfied."Well, after what she asked about you, I suppose I'm not surprised she went to see you directly."She pretended to loosen a buckle on her forearm while she waited for him to clamor for details.He didn't want to take the bait.But he did want to know one thing.

"How do you know she came to see me 'directly'?I didn't say that," he said.

She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it abruptly, obviously having thought better of whatever she was about to say.Then she just shrugged."I think I heard someone mention it.You know how gossip spreads," she said defensively."Everyone knows everyone's business." 

"I do," he sighed."Is there no privacy to be found?" 

She laughed."None."

He wiped the sweat from his brow back into his hair, trying to lay it flat.A fool's errand.In this weather, nothing would straighten it.He lifted his own rear to help him stand, with an undignified groan.He brushed stray straw and grass from his breeches, and held out a hand to Cassandra.She took it, only lightly grimacing at how sweaty it was, and let him help her up. 

She brushed herself clean of grass, then tried to straighten her braid as she looked at Cullen out of the corner of her eye."You don't want to know what she asked?" 

He paused as he gathered up their practice blades and gloves into his arms."I would like to know, yes," he said, cautiously.He didn't look up.

Cassandra sighed with relief."She asked how old you were.I said I didn't know.How old are you?" 

"31."

"Fine.She asked how long I'd known you.She asked whether you had an illness.I suppose she can see symptoms in you," Cassandra wondered aloud."She asked if you were _nice_ ," she laughed."I said yes."

"Thanks for that."He walked to a chest nearby and deposited the dull swords. 

"And she asked if you were involved with anyone," she finished."I said I didn't know the answer to that one, either," she said, folding her arms. 

She had wondered about all of this?She'd never been shy about asking him about himself.He supposed these were things she didn't want to ask _him_ about.It made sense.How could you ask someone if they're nice, after all?Are they going to say no?And... involved with anyone.He tried desperately to will away the blush he felt creeping into his cheeks. 

"Those are interesting questions," he said stiffly, still facing the chest.

Cassandra was quiet for a moment.Then she said, "I'll be seeing her this evening, you know.Leliana and I are meeting her for a drink later.You could join us." 

He turned around to face her but didn't really focus, just tried to process why exactly the idea of that made him so bloody nervous."Oh?" he said, attempting nonchalance, and likely failing."Where?" 

"At the tavern, of course," she said impatiently."After this dinner they're having in the great hall.Come, everyone needs a drink in this heat.And maybe you can answer these questions she had yourself," she added, teasing. 

His chest suddenly felt very tight, and he knew he couldn't hide the sadness that suddenly gripped him.He looked at the ground and shook his head. 

She crossed over to him.He could see the concern on her face, which made him feel guilty and pathetic, on top of everything else."May I speak freely with you, Cullen?" she asked tentatively.

It struck him that if she hadn't already been speaking freely, he wasn't sure what he was in for now.But he only answered, "Of course."

She appeared to carefully consider her words.Finally she said, "I think a... friendship would be good for you.For both of you."She looked at him intently, but with affection. 

He could only assume that by "both" she meant the Inquisitor and himself.Weren't they friends?They were friendly.Perhaps real friendship, more than they had now, was an attainable goal.

"Why do you say that?" he asked. 

She sighed, glancing around them."You both bear much weight.Lighten it when you can, if you can."She folded her arms, shrugging."Perhaps you can do that for each other." 

"Do you think that's a good idea?" he asked."She's the Inquisitor, we're at war.And I'm..."He trailed off, finding it hard to define the one thing he was that was wrong.There seemed to be so many. 

She reached out and placed a hand on his upper arm, squeezing gently."She can be more than one thing," she said softly."So can you." 

All he could do was nod.Her confidence in him shamed him.She reminded him so much of Mia."Thank you," he said, not looking at her. 

She let go of his arm and clapped him hard on the shoulder."Thank me by coming to the Herald's Rest tonight." 

As Cassandra walked away, he weighed what she said in his mind.He had, over the past month, when he found the time to think, vacillated between wanting to go to her, wanting to be more to her, and fearing it. 

A sudden itch at his neck reminded him how sweaty and straw-covered he was, so, after sneaking into the kitchens for a quick dinner, he went towash up and put on his usual attire.Again he left behind his fur and gloves.Though he wanted to look presentable, he allowed himself some small mercies against the heat.He didn't, however, bother with his hair, curling itself unbidden.In the dim, cracked glass above his wash basin, the fluffy curls made him look like a teenager again.He felt like a teenager, recently, with his stomach in knots over a girl, thoughts of her at night keeping him awake.And like back then, he was clueless as to how to proceed. 

He sighed at himself and wet his razor in the basin.As he brought it to his cheek to shave, piercing pain shot through his gut.

He doubled over, dropping the razor to the floor.He grew suddenly boiling hot, panting as the pain seemed undulate through him in waves.Crawling to his bed, he managed to roll himself into it, curling his knees to his chest, putting some pressure on his stomach to ease the pain, to at least feel something else.A long-awaited breeze flowed into the loft through the roof hole, but he felt no relief from it as the air cooled the sweat at his hairline.

Void take him, he sometimes wished these attacks would knock him out cold.Instead he was all too conscious, feeling every little shock as he waited for it to subside. 

After some time, he knew not how long, the pain dulled into a hard ache.He rolled over on the bed to reach his makeshift table.He kept her herbs there, and the wine.He mixed them into a cup and drank, emptying the bottle.Whether it made him too sleepy to be good company later didn't matter just now.He lay in bed, his breath heavy and slow, holding the empty wine bottle close.

He was very tempted to stay there all night.Here, in his bed, he could take his rest, while he had what she'd given him.He could imagine seeing her, talking, sharing a few drinks, walking with her out on the battlements, watching the sky, waiting for the storm to roll in.He could imagine it very clearly.It was almost as good as the real thing might be, and if he stuttered or said something foolish, he could reimagine it, get it right. 

But the pain was fading.The warmth from her remedy spread through him.He would do what he knew he should do.Slowly he rolled himself upright, his head throbbing and dizzy.He carefully placed the wine bottle near the bed.Then he stood, slowly, then gingerly climbed down the ladder, then walked out the door. 

***

One could faintly hear the din of evening music and laughter outside the door to the Herald's Rest, equal parts inviting and intimidating.Cullen paused and steadied himself before pushing open the heavy wooden door.Instantly the sound bloomed around him, music gently floating over the sea of conversation and cards.He ducked under a low beam as he walked in, nodding to a table of recruits as he passed.They slowly lifted their ale tankards to him in a confused salute, and he swallowed a laugh.They'd learned no official protocol on how to greet your commanding officer in a tavern, and since their army was so ragtag and pieced together, he tended to focus on fighting discipline, rather than the strict order and threats of punishment he'd had drilled into him.It was enough for them to believe in the cause.That gave them their focus, not fear. 

He scanned the warmly lit tavern and found Cassandra at a small table near the unlit fireplace.She sat with her legs crossed, her gloves folded neatly beside her, sipping an ale.It was an oddly dainty posture for her, to his mind, but he remembered she was technically royalty, as much as she might like to forget.He was thankful for their friendship, and for the chance she'd given him in Kirkwall that brought him here.Unlike the Order, where your rank rarely outpaced your position in civilian life, the Inquisition had seemed to level everyone out, so that a poor farm boy from Honnleath could drink bad ale with a Nevarran princess and no one thought it odd. 

Maybe the ale wouldn't be bad tonight.

He sat down on the bench across the table from her, surprising her."Oh, you're here, I'm glad.And you cleaned up," she said, looking him over, one eyebrow raised sharply."Probably time better spent than dining with visiting dignitaries," she muttered into her ale. 

He nodded sympathetically. 

The tavern door slamming shut rang out over the din, and they both turned to see that Leliana had entered, with the Inquisitor.Leliana spotted them quickly and strode over, while the Inquisitor lingered by the door.He indulged himself and took in the sight of her.She was in her usual breeches and boots, but instead of armor she'd worn a royal blue jacket, sparkling with silver buttons.It was slung over her arm, discarded in the heat, so all she wore was a simple linen undershirt with no sleeves.The pale cream of her clothes made her dark skin, a sweet warm sepia, all the more vibrant.Her dark red hair, pushed behind her ears, fell to just above her shoulders, a few sweat-damp strands clinging to her neck.Her only adornments were a few simple silver earrings, and her steel-grey _vallaslin_.She looked tired but pleased to reach the end of a long day, her dark brown eyes surveying the tavern. 

Then her eyes found his.His heart began to thump a nervous rhythm.He was sure he was staring slack-jawed, but he would have been more embarrassed to turn away when she caught him, so he held her gaze.She seemed surprised to see him, blinking, her brow furrowed.But then a slow smile began to spread, and she turned her eyes down, walking toward the table. 

"Commander," Leliana said with authority, suddenly beside him, startling him from his thoughts.He abruptly stood, knocking his knee against a table leg, and nodded to her."Thank you for joining us this evening."She smiled slyly, though her smiles always looked sly to him, and walked around the table to sit on the bench beside him.The Inquisitor soon joined them, and took the seat beside Cassandra, diagonal to him.Once she was settled, he sat again, nodding in acknowledgment to her.He put his hands in his lap and felt the need to sit up very straight. 

"Hello, everyone," Cassandra sang lightly."You managed to escape the Arlessa and her retinue?" 

Leliana scoffed."Barely.I had to tell Josephine we were late for a security detail meeting.It was the only way she would let us leave."She folded her hands on the table, sighing. 

"And she knows you were lying," the Inquisitor said, smirking.She slumped forward a bit, her elbow on the table, and propped her head on her fist. 

"Of course, but the Arlessa is none the wiser.Oh, she goes on, does she not?"

Cassandra nodded."I couldn't take much more after I finished my meal, to be perfectly honest.So I didn't."She threw back her tankard to finish her ale. 

"Looks like we need a round," the Inquisitor said. 

"I'll get them," he offered eagerly, standing."Ale for everyone, or...?" 

Leliana stood as well and placed a light hand on his arm."No, no, you sit.I'll get them.I have something very specific in mind."She walked around the table."Cassandra, join me?I won't be able to carry them all." 

Cassandra raised her eyebrows a bit and stood, grabbing her tankard."Coming," she said.They walked away toward the bar, leaving him alone with her.He sat, and smiled shyly at her.

"I didn't know you were coming along tonight, Commander," she said, smiling.She sat up and put her hands on the table.Her lack of shirtsleeves showed off her arms, more muscular than he knew.It was...very attractive, he had to admit.Obviously she was less fragile than he'd imagined, too.That he'd thought so made him feel a little foolish. 

He idly fidgeted with his thumb to distract him from her arms."Cassandra invited me earlier.I hope you don't mind," he added.

"Oh, no!I'm glad, actually," she said."I feel like I haven't really seen you for a while now." 

"Yes," he said softly."I was thinking the same thing earlier."His palms were wet.Was he always this sweaty?He realized that his gloves usually kept him from knowing.Damn this weather. 

She nodded, looking into his eyes, then her gaze moved up.She giggled and brought a hand to her cheek, sighing. 

"What is it?" he asked, cocking one brow. 

"Um, your hair," she said slowly."I just noticed.I've never seen it like that before." 

His hand flew to his head, instinctively trying to flatten his curls.Which was pointless.He grimaced."It's the weather," he grumbled. 

"So that's why Varric calls you Curly.I didn't realize it was meant literally," she said."You don't like it?"She was trying not to smile but her eyes betrayed her."It makes you look so young, like a little boy, really." 

He narrowed his eyes dramatically, frowning in jest, and folded his arms across his chest."That is precisely why I don't like it."He laughed, but her teasing him made him feel like a boy.Squirmy and out of his depth.

She looked him over, her eyes roaming over his head and face while she smiled."Well, that's too bad.I like it a lot," she shrugged."And I learned something about you I didn't know." 

He felt himself redden, so he looked down at the table."I feel like you already know everything about me," he said with a nervous laugh.He looked up."But I know hardly anything about you," he added. 

She raised an eyebrow.He couldn't tell whether she was taken aback by him, or just amused.She was confounding him again. 

"Drinks," Cassandra announced.She and Leliana had returned with four tankards, and distributed them around the table.Leliana had come around the table to the far side, near his seat. 

"Cullen, could I ask you to move down?I would prefer to sit closer to the door," she said sweetly."Forgive me, it's just one of my quirks." 

"Uh, of course," he said, and slid down the bench, across from the Inquisitor, who lifted her tankard. 

"Well, cheers, everyone," she said."Thanks for keeping me company and being the best advisors."Cassandra snorted and rolled her eyes."Oh, and Josephine, too," she added. 

"And Josephine, too," Leliana echoed, lifting her own ale.Everyone clanked their tankards, being sure not to miss anyone.It was a confused shuffle which resulted in only a little spilled ale.The Inquisitor and Cullen toasted each other last.He nodded his head deferentially to her as their tankards touched, and she looked into his eyes as she sipped, her dark brown eyes shining. 

The ale settled warmly in his belly.His nerves were beginning to calm, but he couldn't deny to himself that he just wanted to be alone with her.That his hands ached to touch her.He thought just now, as a warmth spread across her smiling face, that she might want the same thing.But he wanted more, too, more than he could even put into words.More than he felt he deserved.Too much to ask of her.So for the time being, sharing a drink, as friends, had to be enough. 

***

The night continued on, the group talking and laughing about nothing important.Only occasionally did the conversation delve into Inquisition matters, threatening to drag everyone back into work mode, but each time one of them would stop it in its tracks, declaring, "This is not actually a meeting."Everyone would laugh and agree.After another round, Cullen felt not even the vestiges of his earlier pain, and very little of his nervousness.And it was nice to be in her company.

"Leliana," the Inquisitor asked, "did you even notice that man of the Arlessa's was flirting with you?"Her face was rosy with drink and she grinned teasingly. 

Leliana gaped at her."He was not.Which man?"She looked up, thinking.

"He definitely was," she said, swallowing."That counselor or whatever.The one next to you!"

Cullen laughed, shaking his head."I sort of hate I that missed this.And I fear for the man now."

Cassandra scrunched her nose."Was he the one who looked like King Alistair?"The Inquisitor nodded. 

The mention of the King of Ferelden made Cullen go a little cold.He took a long drink of his ale and swallowed hard, his smile fading.The King was not someone he liked to think about. 

Leliana was still trying to remember him."He was like Alistair?Ah, well, that's probably why I didn't notice," she giggled. 

The Inquisitor shrugged."He wasn't in the best of moods when I met him, but I thought the King was quite handsome," she said, taking a drink and raising her eyebrows. 

Cullen glanced up at her.He tried desperately not to react.It was utter foolishness to be jealous, she was simply being playful.And no one, especially her, had any idea what he thought of the King, but he felt himself glowering.It was his curse.He could never hide how he felt.So he had to come up with something to say."Well, not to be unpatriotic," he said, looking into his ale, "but I've heard the King is an absolute fool."It came out a bit more sharply than he'd intended.He drank, trying to hide behind his tankard, but the Inquisitor seemed to notice, and frowned a little. 

Cassandra, however, just laughed."Well, Leliana, is he?" 

Leliana cast her eyes up, smiling.She chuckled, more to herself than at their conversation."He is handsome, in his way.And definitely a fool.But a good man," she said, pointedly, to Cullen. 

Cullen shrugged and hoped he looked like he didn't care. 

Cassandra shook her head."Oh, Cullen, have you even met him?" 

He felt his mask beginning to slip.Now he knew why the Orlesians wore real ones.He was terrified that his face, which told everything, could somehow show them all the fear he kept locked away.That the King of Ferelden figured so heavily in one of the lowest moments of his life."No," he lied, his voice cracking. 

Leliana turned to him, almost imperceptibly, but he felt her eyes on him. 

He drank more.He began to realize why he didn't go out much.  He thought he wasn't good company in earlier years, when perhaps he just wasn't good company at all.

"Hey," the Inquisitor interrupted, leaning forward, "have any of you heard of the Black Emporium?" 

Her question shook him out of his dark thoughts.Cullen looked at her, quirking his eyebrow at her.She quickly cut her eyes to him, glancing at him knowingly, then turned back to the others. 

"Uh, I believe it is in Kirkwall.Some kind of shop?" Cassandra asked. 

"Yes!" the Inquisitor said."Varric keeps telling me I should go there, but that I won't be able to afford anything.What is it?"She smiled broadly, her eyes sharp.He knew what she was doing, changing the subject to save him from scrutiny, although he couldn't quite believe it. 

"I've, uh, heard very strange things about it, actually," he said.Then he thought perhaps she wasn't just playing."You don't really want to go there, do you?" 

"Hmm," she said, her eyes narrowing."Depends on what you've heard."She raised her eyebrows suggestively, and he smiled despite himself. 

Leliana laughed."Have you had enough tonight?" 

"What?" the Inquisitor said."I'm fine!Just intrigued." 

"Well, I probably have had enough," Cassandra offered."I started earliest.And now I'm leaving."She stood, her chair squeaking on the floor as she pulled away from the table.

"I think I will go, as well," Leliana said, rising. 

Cullen wondered if he should offer to leave, if only just to ensure she got some rest after her long day, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her.So he said nothing. 

Leliana and Cassandra said goodnight, both of them giving him a look.Cassandra's was encouraging, while Leliana's was amused, but slightly suspicious.They walked out together.

The Inquisitor turned to him brightly."I'm up for a third round.If you are," she added, softly, placing a hand on the table between them."I don't want to keep you." 

He felt himself softening in her presence, felt calmer, and happier, now that it was only the two of them.Even though they sat in the middle of a tavern full of conversation, drinking, card playing, music, even though off-key voices slurred along with the bard's playing, even though the sloshing of ale behind the bar and disappointed groans of losers at cards punctured the level din, hardly any of it registered with him. 

"I am," he said, leaning forward, held by her dark eyes."Please, keep me."


	4. An evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor and Cullen share drinks, details and desires (quietly).

The Herald's Rest was steeped in wine gone to vinegar, grubby silvers, and the sweat of tired soldiers. The bar seemed to trap errant gloves and loose coins in its sticky grasp. Cabot the barman was as sour as any bad ale. But Cullen was happy. Fetching their next round, he leaned against the bar, its gummy surface pulling at his shirtsleeve, and peered around a beam to watch the Inquisitor, alone at their table.

She slumped, head in hands, her round face pouting like a tired child. She yawned, cat-like, eyes and ears stretching wide, then sat up straight, shaking her shoulders loose. It was good to see her like this, removed from the tension and seriousness of their days. His eyes rested on the rumpled waves of her hair. Then she looked up, and caught him watching her. Again, he couldn't turn away. She smiled—that silly, lopsided smile she first gave him back in Haven, the first time she made his guts flop and his pulse quicken. Unfortunately, it still had the same effect.

"Two up." Cabot grunted and plunked down the overflowing tankards, foam spilling down the sides. Cullen dug two coins from his pocket, placed them on the bar, and took the ales.

"Uh, thanks," he said, ale foam washing over his fingers. Cabot, busy prying the already-stuck coins from the bar, ignored him.

Dodging the bard and a solo, drunken dancer swaying to her music, he brought their drinks to the table and settled in front of her, wiping his hands on his trousers.

"Cheers," she said, lifting her ale to him. The full tankards made a dull clink as they toasted. She gulped eagerly, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smiling at him.

"I suppose there is at least one benefit to being Inquisitor," he said. "You never have to buy your own drinks."

She snorted. "Not sure that balances out the rough spots, but I'll take it."

He looked over the rim of his drink at her, her dark eyes sparkling.

"So, ah"—

"I wanted to—"

They began to speak at the same time. She apologized but Cullen, flustered, gestured for her to go ahead.

Leaning forward, she tucked a thin braid behind her ear and looked away. "So," she began, "you said earlier you don't know anything about me." He watched her fingers twist the leather cord tying the braid. Her nails were short and rough, stained by red dirt. "I can't believe that's true but, um," she turned to face him, "you can ask me anything." Her eyes searched his face, and in his stomach he felt the command in her words. _Ask me._

The question which had nagged at him, but always seemed to come to mind too late, had found its moment. "Well," he ventured, "I do have something to ask. I intended to for some time now." He gave a strained smile, already embarrassed.

The Inquisitor sat up straight. "Should I be nervous?"

"No, no." _But I am_ , he thought. He glanced away, looking at nothing, shaking his head, willing himself to talk. To look into her eyes. "I don't know your name. Your first name, I mean. I feel stupid for not having asked before, but..." He scratched his neck, shrugging an apology.

He wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't laughter. She shook her head, smiling. "Didn't Leliana put together some big report on me? I saw it once, but it terrified me. I couldn't look."

Cullen focused on his drink. "I know, I could have read that, I _should_ have, but I..." He trailed off, feeling a blush creeping into his face. "I wanted to get to know you. Personally."

"Right." She nodded, a shy smile. "I understand that." He wasn't sure he even understood himself, but he was grateful if she meant it.

"Well, my name," she said, flattening her hands against the table. "My actual name is Ellana Valenni Lavellan. Ellana is my name, Valenni my mother's, and Lavellan is the clan, as you know." She pronounced the clan name differently than he had heard before. "But no one usually calls me any of that," she said.

"So... what do they call you?" he asked, confused.

She took a breath. "Apparently, when I was born I looked exactly like my father. Red hair, dark skin." She gestured to her head and face. "His name was Finnock, so everyone called me Little Finn. And when I got to be not so little, they just called me Finn." She paused, looking into the distance, and her face had tensed. "Now everyone calls me Inquisitor, which is strange, or Herald which is... intimidating. Or Lavellan," she said, stressing the middle. "And it's pronounced LA-vel-LAN, but no one says it right and I'm afraid I'm actually getting used to it."

He nodded, his brow wrinkled, trying to dedicate to memory all she'd said. "So... what should I call you?" he asked, even more confused.

She laughed. "I suppose what I'm saying is, it hardly matters."

"Of course it matters," he chided. She shrugged, so he offered his suggestion. "Why not Ellana?"

"You'd be the only person in Thedas to call me that," she said with a wry smile. "I'd forget to respond to it." She gripped her tankard in both hands, her slender fingers stretching around the barrel.

He was feeling bold. "Then I'll only call you that when it's you and me."

The color seemed to drain from her face, just briefly. But her cheeky smirk came back to tease him. "Then I look forward to it," she said, her voice low.

Suddenly his mouth was very dry. He cleared his throat and took a drink.

"So, uh, Finnock," he said. "That's kind of a Fereldan name, isn't it?"

She drank, nodding. "Yes, my father was from the alienage in Denerim. Somehow he got a sh— uh, a human name."

She stopped herself from saying "shem," but he heard it. Not that he really cared. "I take it he's no longer living?" he asked, gently.

"No, he died when I was quite young. Accident."

"I'm sorry," he said.

She nodded. "Thanks."

He hoped he wasn't making her uncomfortable, but at the same time, he wanted to know all about her. "Do you have any other family?"

"My mother," she said. "There's the clan, some are cousins, but..." She shrugged.

He nodded in acknowledgment and fell silent, considering how hard this must be on her, to be away from everything she'd considered her life. As far as he knew. "Do you miss your clan? And your mother?"

She looked up to the tavern ceiling. "I miss being home but, um, my mother and I aren't really close, so..." Her expression, the distant thoughts clouding her face, made him wish he hadn't asked. But something in it, a slight vulnerability, it made him want to open up to her.

"I, um, wasn't particularly close with my parents, either," he said in a low voice. He felt his face twitching. He was unsure whether he had ever spoken about that to anyone else.

She nodded sympathetically, looking down at the table. "Yes, that can be a difficult thing." she whispered. He was silent, watching her, his mind whirring with old thoughts he wasn't interested in acknowledging. Looking at her helped.

"You said you missed them, though?" she ventured softly. "when you went away to school?"

 _You remember that?_ he thought. "I missed my siblings." She looked intrigued. "Two sisters, and a brother. They're in South Reach now."

"Do you keep in touch with them?" she asked, her voice sweet, something in it telling him she already knew the answer was no.

He shook his head. "Not as well as I should."

She smiled at him, her eyes tender. "That's always the way, isn't it?" He nodded.

She seemed to always do that, to open a door for him, and rather than close it hard behind him, walked softly near him. She had a strange knack for making him feel comfortable, and good. Was it anything she was doing or saying, or was it just how he felt about her? His mind went back to his conversation with Cassandra earlier, her suggestion that they might lighten each others' burdens. She was doing that for him. Was she intending to? Or was it simply the way she was? Did everyone feel so good around her? He hoped he could do that for her, in some way. He had no idea how.

"I'm 31," he said. She looked taken aback, amused, by his sudden interjection. "My age," he felt the need to add, though even as he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded.

"Yes, I thought that was what you meant." She laughed. "That's good, then. You aren't too much younger than I am." She took a sip of her ale, holding his eyes with hers as she drank. She put down the flagon, caressing the ridges of the handle with her thumb. "I'm 33," she said.

He smiled. The only surprising thing about that was that it wasn't surprising at all. It seemed that every woman he'd ever been interested in had been a little older. Though the difference was miniscule. And if he'd been forced to guess her age, he might have been ten years off. Humans aged rather poorly compared to elves, he'd noticed.

It struck him that he had forgot to say something very important to her. He scratched at the frizzing curls brushing his forehead, hoping to threaten them into behaving. "Thank you, by the way," he said, "for the herbs you gave me. And the wine." He looked into her eyes, brightly gazing back at him. "They helped. Immensely."

"I am very glad to hear it," she said. She placed a hand on the table between them. "Let me know if you need more. Or," she said, still holding his gaze, "anything else."

His face flushed. He made a mental note not to have another ale. "Actually, I did manage to finish the wine already. It was... very nice."

She giggled. "I would hope so, it's been a month. Wouldn't have lasted a week with me."

Her laugh sent a pulse through him, that ache to touch her returning. He leaned forward on the table, resting his head on his hand. "Well," he said, "I was savoring it. I wanted it to last."

One side of her mouth tugged up in a smirk, and her fingers on the table curled, nails scratching the wood.

Like the wine, he wanted this to last. So he changed the subject. "How long have you been a healer?"

Smiling, she sighed. "Almost fifteen years now? Doesn't feel that long."

"I know what you mean," he said with a soft laugh. Depending on the day, he sometimes felt the years had gone by in an instant. Other times, he felt the weight of each one grinding him down.

"But I mostly do preparations," she said. "Medicine making, apothecary work. Planting, gathering. I don't see as many patients as Thenel. Thenel is the clan healer, the official one," she explained.

"You assist him?"

She seemed to struggle to explain. "We work together, we just do... different things. He's much more experienced than I am, of course—I apprenticed with him. But I could go to another clan and be a healer, if I chose." She stroked a finger around the rim of her tankard. "I like where I am, though. I like being hands on with the medicine, and the plants. It's a lot of responsibility to be the healer. Although," she sighed, closing her eyes, "I have a lot of responsibility now." Her brow furrowed, and she seemed to sag with the burden of it.

"I'm afraid you do," he said softly. He wanted to reach out to her, to cover her hand with his. He did not. "How are you holding up?"

She looked up, surprised, but her eyes were worried. "Ah, I'm not sure. I suppose I've got used to not thinking about that." She swallowed. "No one's asked me that since... hmm, since Haven? And things were different then." She took a drink, trying to mask her anxiety, but failing. He could see that.

With everything the Inquisition was doing, with the care it took to make the most useless visiting noble comfortable, it seemed shocking, but utterly predictable, that they would fail to ensure their greatest asset was happy. It was, perhaps, an impossible task, given the circumstances, but they should have done more for her. He, in particular, felt the sting of guilt, that he had been all but fixated on her, and hadn't yet found a way to do what he could for her. Instead, he'd let her take care of him.

"Inquisitor," he began, looking down at the table, and stopped himself. He looked up, into her eyes, and felt his heart throb. "Ellana," he said. Her name felt precious to say, like a rune that, once used, would burn to ash. "I want to ensure that you are comfortable and happy. Anything you need, or want... you have only to ask."

She was still before him, her lips parted, soft shock coloring her features. "Thank you," she breathed. He could see her cheeks had reddened. She took another drink from her tankard, looking away. Maker, he'd been fawning over her and now he'd made her uncomfortable. This was why he had been so reticent this past month with her, this was his fear. One of his fears.

She put down her ale. "Anything, you say?" she asked. She smirked at him. "That could be a dangerous offer."

So she wasn't too put off. Perhaps not at all. Perhaps he'd simply managed to do to her what she'd done to him before, make him blush and stammer, half intimidated, half... The thought emboldened him. He returned her smirk. "I'm not afraid," he said.

Her smirk became a shy smile, and she brought a hand to her mouth, stroking her bottom lip with two fingers. "Good," she said, nodding. "That's good."

He needed to look away from her mouth, so he looked rather deeply into his ale and searched for something to say.

"I, ah, happened by the courtyard the other day," he said. "It's so different from when we arrived. It's to your credit," he said, gesturing toward her. "You've put your heart into it." Though it was flattering, he meant it. He could sense the care and time she'd spent, the stamp she had put on Skyhold, the pieces of her it held.

She looked touched. "Thank you, although Elan takes care of the day to day. I wish I were around more, but that doesn't seem likely. I suppose it will stay a hobby for now." Her eyes searched his face. "Do you, um, have any hobbies?"

Instinctively, he wanted to say no, make some self-deprecating reference to his banal life and boring personality, but he worried that in itself would be a boring thing to say. So he deferred. "I'm meant to be learning about you now, aren't I?"

"Right." She nodded, acknowledging his point. "But," she teased, "answer me anyway."

He was caught. "Fine," he sighed, feigning annoynce. "Does sparring pratice count?"

"Not at all, that's practically work. Surely you've got something. Blackwall does his carvings, Solas paints, Sera likes to bake."

"Sera bakes?" A memory struck him. "Yes, she brought me a cake once. I, um, didn't eat it." He laughed. "I thought it was some kind of trick."

She looked to the side, giggling. "Ah, well, probably not, but I would be careful. She does like to add something... extra to her baking."

As what she meant dawned on him he nodded. "Ah. I gave it to some of the scouts on duty. That does explain a few things about their behavior afterward."

She laughed, and it was a clear, deep laugh he could feel in his belly. He wanted to make her laugh, over and over. "Perhaps I could join you in the garden," he said. "I know my way around a pile of dirt."

"Do you now?"

"I grew up on a farm. I was planting before I could walk."

She leaned forward. "Truly," she said, "I'm not sure I'd have guessed that. What kind of farm?"

"Just a family farm," he shrugged. Images from his childhood filled his mind. _Mia scrubbing dirt from his hands until they were raw._ "Enough for us, a bit to sell on the side." _His father's face red and sweating._ "We weren't especially brilliant at it, there were some lean years." _The babies crying in the dry squash patch while his mother slept._ "But I have a lot of experience." He shook them from his mind, smiled at her. "So, now you know my secret. A farm boy at heart."

She smiled, looking him over. "I can picture it."

He sighed, felt a warm ache, soothing the cold his memories had brought on. "And now you've got me talking about myself again," he said softly. "How do you do that?"

A mischevous smirk and a shrug was his only answer.

He leaned forward. "So, is the garden part of your religious practice?" She wrinkled her brow. "If, ah, you don't mind my asking," he stumbled. "You mentioned to me about your vallaslin, that it was for Sylaise, you said? Your herbwork?" He hoped he had not crossed some line in asking her this.

She folded her hands. "I wanted to say..." She trailed off, looking up, searching for her words, her lips drawn tight. "I didn't meant to give you any wrong impression, that night. I, ah, am not religious myself. Despite this," she said, touching her face. "Don't get me wrong, I love the path I've chosen. I was meant to walk _vir atish'an_ , but..."

"I think I understand," he said, grateful for her explanation. "It's more... cultural?"

She smiled, looked thankful. "Right. When I was younger, I was quite religious. But for a long while now... I don't know, it's so complicated. Maybe it's to do with aging?" she asked, more to herself than to him, her hands spread wide. "Maybe you just see too much that... doesn't fit?"

He sat before her, blinking. It didn't fit anymore. Seen too much. Done too much. Yes, nothing fit, things that used to make sense no longer did. Perhaps they never did. Again, she had opened the door for him. "I, um..." he began, swallowing hard. "I feel much the same. These days." The words felt like they were stuck in his throat.

She looked back at him, concern in her eyes. Concern for him, again. "Really?" she asked, softly.

He nodded. "Yes," he said, surprised at how defeated he sounded even to his own ears. "Look at what the Chantry has become. What it has likely always been," he scoffed. "My, ah, my entire life has been the Chantry. And its Circles. And I am so wary of it now." He was not sure he could fully explain this to her, she without the incessant drumbeat of the Chantry in her head for her whole life. "That the Inquisition is not part of the Chantry is a good thing. But still. Cassandra and Leliana, the Left and Right Hands. They were the best of us, each with the Divines' ear. And still there has been so much atrocity. There is blood on everyone's hands." He was whispering now, perhaps she could not even hear him. His face felt frozen.

She put her hands on the table. "Do you mean this mage-templar war? The Conclave?"

He looked into her dark eyes, focused on the soft, nearly black ring around her iris. "No," he said. "It begins in the Circles."

"If you—" She shook her head. "You can tell me anything," she said, her voice low.

Anything, but not everything. That would be too painful. There were some things he was not sure he could ever share. Things he must leave behind, to save himself. Even if they implicated him. Even if they were the truth.

He took a deep breath. "I only mean to say," he began, but didn't finish. "I have _chosen_ to leave that life behind. I still have faith in the Maker, in Andraste. But the Chantry is no longer a part of that for me."

"You mean leaving the Templars?" she asked, quietly.

"And all that entails." His hands shook, so he gripped the tankard handle tighter. "The Templars here have a reliable source of lyrium but I—" His throat caught, as if to stop him from telling her the truth. "I no longer take it."

She looked at him blankly. "You just stopped? Completely?"

"When I joined the Inquisition," he mumbled. "It's been months now."

"Just stopped," she repeated to herself. "Well, I wouldn't have recommended that." She rested her forehead against her hand, shut her eyes tight and breathed sharply through her nose.

"I should have told you sooner," he said, his voice unable to rise above a whisper. "I apologize."

"And you've been taking this since you were 18?" she asked. "You must be made of steel just to be conscious, much less..." She shook her head.

His throat tightened. "I am not," he said, his voice cracking. "But I will not be bound to the Order, or that life, any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it." Words he had spoken to himself countless times. Saying them aloud had a certain power, a power he craved and feared in equal measure.

She looked up at him, sighing. "You don't have to suffer."

He did. He knew the pain was penance. But he did not argue with her. The relief she had brought him was more than he deserved.

"I don't know much about lyrium in non-mages. Is this very...?" she seemed to search for the right word. Was she afraid of offending him, by calling it what it was? Stupid, ill-considered, dangerous?

"Practical? No." He shook his head, more at his own selfishness than the question. "No, it's highly impractical. For all of us. I question it constantly."

She stared into his eyes, her lips held tight. "Painful. I was going to say painful." Her look wounded him. Pitiful and self-indulgent on top of everything. She sighed, leaning forward. "I figured there was a reason for the headaches, but I didn't know what. Are you in pain? All the time?" she asked, looking down at the table between them. There was hurt in her voice.

He stroked the ale flagon, tracing the bolted rivets and wood grain. "The pain comes and goes," he whispered. "I can endure it. Usually it's a headache, or my back and shoulders feel... shaky." He shivered as a phantom, remembered pain seemed to return, as if it had been conjured merely by speaking of it. He swallowed. "Sometimes there's a sharp pain in my gut, like I'm going to shit myself."

She closed her eyes. "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Shit yourself."

He held his jaw tight. "No."

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. "You know I'm a healer. If you did, would you tell me?"

"Probably not." A loud round of laughter from across the room pierced the low din. He was suddenly, painfully aware that there were people all around, that someone might have overheard, might have eavesdropped. He glanced around them to catch anyone alone or too quiet, anyone who looked too conspicuously disinterested in their surroundings. But everyone was talking, or playing cards, or drinking in companionable quiet.

She reached forward and patted his forearm, waking him out of his thoughts. "Come on," she said, "let's go."

As he slowly stood, she picked up her jacket, walked around the table to his side and held his arm, guiding him, like an invalid. He wanted to protest, but her hand against his arm was warm and gentle. So he let her walk him, like a blind man or a dog, completely beholden to her.

She leaned in close to him. "Walk me to my quarters," she said. " You can tell me more on the way, in more private conditions. And anyway, I can show you this strange palace they've stuck me in," she laughed. "Like I promised." She squeezed his arm, and he suddenly needed to clear his throat.

"Inquisitor! And the Commander!" As they neared the door, Varric's gruff voice called out. She dropped his arm instantly as he turned, straightening up to what he hoped was an imposing full height. Varric and, Maker help them, Sera were side by side at a table near the door, many rounds into the night, messy remnants of a forgotten card game strewn across the tabletop. "Nice to see you both," Varric said, lifting his ale in recognition.

Sera giggled, snorting. She elbowed Varric in the ribs. "Told ya so."

"Hello, you two," Ellana said, warmly, though he believed he could hear the tension in her voice. Perhaps it was his own nerves. "We were just calling it a night. I'm headed to bed."

"Ooh, I can see that," Sera muttered into her flagon.

He could hear Ellana huff a short breath. "We didn't know you two were here," she said, "You could have joined us."

Varric shook his head, laughing. "The Seeker and the Spymaster, drinking together? I've been in Carta operations less dangerous. Besides," he shrugged, "my hands are full here. Full of Sera's money."

"Yeah friggin right," Sera said, "you were taking notes on them two. Half a second from pulling up their skirts." She gave Cullen a very drunken wink. His jaw tightened.

Varric glanced sharply her. "Sera, please," he laughed, genial but false, "I know it's embarrassing that you're only good at stealing money, not winning it, but you don't have to lie."

"Shut up! _You_ were the one—"

"Now, now," Varric said, patting Sera on the shoulder, "let's see if you can win anything back, and don't make your cheats so obvious this time." He gathered the cards toward him in a sloppy pile. Sera groaned and downed what was left of her ale. "Goodnight, Your Inquisitorialness," he said, not looking up.

Ellana said nothing, but turned sharply and headed out the door. Cullen followed, the sounds of the tavern muffling as the door closed behind him.

Outside, the air had thinned since the sticky afternoon, and a steady, cooling breeze announced the impending rain. He took a deep breath.

Ellana looked up, and he followed her eyes to watch ragged, flat clouds quickly forming. "Sorry for Sera," she said. "She's... well, you know." He looked back to her, her arms crossed tight against her chest, her eyes narrowed as she tracked the clouds.

"I quite like her," he said. "Even if she mocks me. Regularly."

She smiled at him. "I do, too. I mean," she rolled her eyes, "I like Sera. I don't mock you. Not regularly."

He laughed softly. The breeze picked up the loose waves of her unbraided hair, a deep red in the waning moonlight. Then he felt the first drops of long-awaited rain, already fat. It would be a heavy shower. A low rumble of thunder sounded around them, still faint and far away, but the rain picked up. She put on her jacket and held out her palms to catch the rain, laughing, joyful. He wiped his forehead.

"Shall we? Unless we want a bath." She jogged toward to stairs that led to the main hall, and he chased after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I tagged this 'lots of talking,' I hope you didn't think I was kidding. 
> 
> Smut-watchers: sexiness will happen eventually (probably in a couple-ish of chapters).


	5. A night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn and Cullen talk lyrium and leadership. They don't say enough.

Inside the main hall's archway, the driving rain reduced to an echo.  Finn and Cullen had sprinted across the puddled yard and climbed the steps in a hurry, but despite their efforts, they were soaked.  Finn fluffed her hair and shook out the water. She watched Cullen wipe his armor with a wet hand, his hair a mess of flattened curls, dark in the low light.  He rubbed his face dry, then smiled his half-smile at her.  The candles in the entryway glinted his stubble with gold.

The hall was near silent as they walked in together, their soft footsteps, and drips of rain from their clothes, the only sound.  The days bustled with visitors, petitioners, merchants and gossip.  Now, a few guards leaned, dozing, against stone doorways.  She twisted her hair into her fists, wringing it of rain, a line of drops marking her path as they walked toward the back of the hall.

As they neared the dais where the spiky throne sat, she turned her eyes from it.  Every time she had to sit in that chair, her pulse raced, her body froze.  She did not understand why it was necessary.  The advisors had insisted upon it, and she had fought with them, even Cullen.  He had seemed, at first, to sympathize with her, but he didn't speak up much.  Not enough.  She could not make them understand: everything about it went against what she felt, what she believed.  Never to submit, that's how she had been raised.  Her father had fled the alienage, fled to their clan to escape his subjugation.  And to escape other things.  To find his freedom.  Freedom was why the Dalish lived their hard life.  No one would tell them how to live, no one would rule over them.  And here, she had to rule, to playact a queen, handing down judgments.  The field, with its constant threat of violence, was hard.  It was not simple to make war, and killing... it would never feel right.  She accepted there were forces at play which made war necessary.  But sitting in a throne was not war—it was the outcome of war, a war won.  And their war was far from finished.

Two guards slumped at either side of the door leading to her quarters.  They stiffened to attention as she and Cullen neared them.  She began to say hello, when she sensed Cullen tense as well, and pause behind her.  Suddenly, too late, she realized how this looked.  The Inquisitor and the Commander, together, late at night, headed to her quarters.  For the rumor mill, this would confirm what Sera was sure to spread tomorrow.  She sighed.  As much as she might desire it, _did_ desire it, had been thinking of it, and then thought better—none of the implications of that were what she'd intended this night.  She considered making up an excuse for the guards, to reject, in some way, what they may be thinking, but there was nothing she could think of that did not sound like what it was: defensiveness, or lies.  So she nodded to them, opened the door and headed in.  Cullen followed, silent.

As the door shut behind him he paused again.  She turned to see him marveling at the cold, dark stairwell, its towering ceiling and steep drop below.  Even though she, and others, walked this passage often, it had the feeling of an empty, lost room.  A raven's nest, dusty with stolen padding and feathers, nestled in a corner.  Boards and platforms and chests, who knew how old, were just out of reach.  The stair rails were thick with cobwebs.  The leaded windows, during the day a sunny reprieve from the gloom of the stairwell, were spattered darkly with rain, and a hole in the far wall let in the damp outside air.  She headed up the stairs and through the door to her room, oddly small for so grand a space.  She heard his footsteps behind her.

Her room was bright and comfortable, despite the battering rain outside, a cheerful fire spitting in its hearth, which only an hour ago would not have been welcome in the heat.  On the landing, she tossed her damp jacket onto the low couch near the stairs, and rubbed her upper arms warm.  So many nights this was her routine, at the end of a long day, coming to rest in this room, so large and empty.  Alone here.  Not huddled around a fire with clanmates, or sleeping under the stars in your own bedroll, knowing all around there were friends within a few hands' reach.  Here, she was always alone.

So for a moment she forgot Cullen followed her, but he appeared next to her on the landing, looking up at the high, dark-beamed ceilings, his gaze rounding the room and its windows.  Outside the rain fell hard on the balcony, its stinging drops a counterpoint against the steady crackling of the fire.  "This _is_ a remarkable room," he said.  She looked at him, his jaw taut and head raised, his neck pale white even in the low light.  Up to where it met his dark stubble, his skin, she imagined, was soft.  He was close enough that she could smell him—sweat and sweet grass, leather and rain.  She moved away from him, toward the fire.

She hopped over the furs lying before the fire, not wanting to dirty them with muddy bootprints.  She leaned against the side of the hearth, its mantle cluttered with drying herb bundles, and lifted her foot to begin unlacing a wet boot.  Cullen turned to her, and while his gaze shifted it landed, briefly, on the large four-poster bed.  He forced his eyes away, with a subtle shake of his head.  She yanked the tight boot from her foot.  Instead he looked at the makeshift workbench she'd created for herself, standing near the head of the stair: two mostly empty wine barrels she'd dragged from one of her alcoves, and a few loose, near-broken boards.  Atop it were a drakestone mortar and pestle, dusty with powdered remnants of ground herbs, a dull knife, cut roots, dried flower heads and half-filled bottles of clear liquor.  In some of the bottles bobbed leaves and flowers, while others were packed full of green herbs soaking tightly in alcohol.

He ran a finger around the rim of the mortar, a gentle gesture, and looked over the scattered mess of ingredients on the table.  "This is where you do your work now?" he asked, looking up at her.  She had unlaced her other boot and hopped on one foot to pull it off, watching him all the time.

"It is," she answered, bending over to remove her socks and tossing them near the desk.  She dumped the boots in front of the fire to dry.

He laughed softly.  She thought he might be laughing at her hopping.  He didn't know recently she'd even begun wearing shoes.  She'd nearly got used to them.

But he seemed to be amused by the poor construction of her table, as he tried to straighten one of the boards, split down the middle, hanging onto its other half by a few fibers, and nearly snapped it away, toppling a tincture of lady's mantle.  He caught it before it fell to the floor, and carefully replaced it.  His reflexes were quick, she noticed.  "We could get you a proper potions bench, if you want it," he said, backing away from the precarious table.

"Oh, no need for that. It works."  The bench was hers, for her alone.  None of the work she did there was important to anyone, but it kept her sane.  It was a vestige of her old life—her _real_ life—where she could escape, and have nothing more important to do but cut and measure and mix.  She caressed the tender, scale-like leaves of a hanging bundle of juniper.

He nodded, a faint smile on his face.  "If you change your mind," he offered.  He held his hands behind his back, as if waiting for orders, and looked at her.

For a moment she watched the firelight dancing on his armored chestplate, and the swaying light seemed to match the rhythm of her thrumming heart.  Standing there, his face shining in the warm light, stray curls damp against his forehead, he was beautiful.  Never had she found a human man beautiful.  She was not prepared, not at all, to take any action on these feelings which kept churning in her mind, in her gut.  But neither was she willing to say goodnight yet.

She sat down cross-legged on the pile of furs and beckoned to him.  "Come dry yourself by the fire."

He looked down at his feet, then into one of the room's dark corners.  "I should let you be for the night."

"Just a few minutes," she said.  "Wait to see if the rain slacks."

To her relief, he hesitated only a moment before he joined her, lowering himself to sit near her, his long legs stretched toward the hearth.  She watched him move, his gait graceful and controlled, his movements careful but sure.  She imagined he had, at some point, relearned how to walk and move in this studied way, and she wondered what he had been like before the Templars.  Had he ever been awkward, stumbling over his own feet like a mabari pup?  On his farm, had he been round-cheeked and rosy, or skinny and all legs like a colt?  One day, she would ask.

His hand floated over the tips of the ruffled fur, then settled in the space between them.  "Do you sit here often?" he asked.  "By your fire?"

The curiosity in his voice intrigued her.  "Very often," she answered.  Perhaps he would picture her in his mind later, curled up in fur, staring into the flames.  Perhaps he liked to imagine her much as she imagined him: picture him easing out of his armor piece by heavy piece and stretching his muscled arms, pulling his strong frame up the ladder to his loft, climbing into bed and relaxing his limbs.  Picture herself there waiting for him.  "I sleep here," she said.

He turned to her, his face blank.  "Here?"

"I tried the bed," she said, "but I couldn't get used to it."  
  
He looked to the fire and scratched the back of his head, sighing.  She turned to the fire, too, staring deep into the orange embers.  She had not meant to make him uncomfortable—it was true that she slept where they now sat, the bed was so unbearably soft.  But she had let her desire do the thinking, when he'd been so open with her, and needed her help.

"I wasn't scolding you earlier," she began, "about the lyrium."  She uncrossed her legs and hugged her knees to her chest.  "I wish I could have helped you, in the beginning.  I hope I could have made it easier for you."

His gaze had lifted above the fire, to the scattered herbs hanging from the mantle, the small statue of a halla that stood in an elegant prance above them.  "What would you have done differently?" he asked.

She knew he would not like the answer.  "Taper off your use, to a gradual end."

He shook his head and looked down, his face pained.  "But I could not continue."

"Look."  Folding her legs behind her, she turned to face him.  "Anything so potent, taken for so long—it changes you. It changes your body."  She looked at him, could see his jaw working as he listened to her.  "To stop all at once... it could have killed you."  Now, she knew, she was scolding.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.  "It hasn't yet," he said.

Frustration boiled in her.  "Surely you do care whether you live or die," she snapped.

"Yes," he sighed, turning to look at her, his eyes apologetic.  "I do."

The hot anger faded, and she wondered at how easily he could affect her: one moment exasperated, protective the next.  She took a deep breath.  "The body is resilient," she said.  "One can reason with it, so to speak."

"Instead of forcing it to submit to my will, you mean?"  He scratched a hand through his drying curls.

"Instead of that."

"You should know by now," he said, "I have very few methods of approach at my disposal."  He snickered, shaking his head.  "The hammer to which everything looks like a nail, I've heard."

His self-deprecation did not amuse her as it usually did, but she felt a tender pull toward him.  She smiled at him.  "That seems a shallow view of your character, to my eyes."

He looked at her, his eyes troubled and red with pressure.  "In all honesty," he said, "my will to stop taking lyrium has been... weaker than I have let on."  His body seemed to shrink from her.

What he was saying came as no surprise to her.  "How many times?" she asked, gently.

He swallowed.  "Three," he said, rubbing his temple.  "Three times I have taken it.  First was after the Temple, and the breach.  I had only just made the decision.  But there was such chaos, so many demons..."  The confession poured out of him as though he had been aching for someone to listen, but his voice was heavy with fear, and pain.

"I told myself that would be the last time," he said.  "But when Corypheus hit us at Haven, and we were so unprepared..."  He looked down at his lap, hissed a breath through clenched teeth.  "My weakness in the face of that threat was a test.  And I failed, and took the lyrium.

"The last was that same night," he whispered, "when we were searching for you.  I thought it would help me track the anchor."

She felt cold.  Vague memories of that night, and clear ones of her rescue, blended together into their own chaos.  "Did it work?" she asked.

"I barely remember."  He brought his head up, looked into her eyes.  "But we did find you.  I remember that."

She stared at him.  He had carried her down the mountain, through the snow.  Then, she had been shocked by how strong and steady he was.  It had drawn her to him, even more strongly than before.  But now, the weight of his words pressed upon her like armor, heavy and cold.  "And you risked undoing all your efforts. You saved my life that night," she said, her voice a whisper, tears closing her throat. "Have I even thanked you?"

He held her gaze, his eyes golden in the firelight.  "You saved all of us," he said, insistent.  "I would do everything I could to find you."

Her breath left her.  Her heart hammered so hard against her ribs she was sure he could hear.  She reached for his hand in the fur, lifted it into her own, and held his fingers in her grip.  "Thank you," she said.

He said nothing, but his eyes did not leave hers, and she could see his chest and shoulders rise and fall with hard breaths, nostrils flaring.  The calluses on his palm were rough under her fingertips, his skin against hers felt feverish.  She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb.

Her fingers trembled with want.  And she could feel him wanting her.  Her chest ached, her eyes burned with it.  More, even, than wanting him, she wanted it to be easy between them.  The simple, natural affection she had, more than once, within the clan.  It didn't last, but that was not the point.  Two people could touch each other, smile and sleep and kiss, without fear or the weight of their sorrows.  How she wanted that for the both of them, to break the hard pieces of armor closed around him, to shed the strange magic she could feel, even now, pulsing in the hand that held his.  To be two people, not Commander, or Inquisitor.

She released his hand back into the fur between them and looked out to the balcony door near them.  The rain had lessened to a light, but steady, patter.  Cullen folded his arms loosely, and rested his chin in his palm.  "I am grateful," he said, staring into the fire, "for your help, and for... talking with me."  She could see his brow tense.  "With you, I feel comfortable.  You put me at ease," he said, "in a way."  His words were clipped and he seemed to swallow them as he spoke.  She wondered how long it had been since he told anyone how he felt.

Suddenly he stood.  She looked up at him from the floor, his head down, adjusting his armor and sashes.  "It is quite late," he said in the same clipped tone, "the rain seems near finished.  And I am sure you are eager to rest."  She nodded and stood, her heart heavy with guilt and confusion and tenderness.  No words came to her, just muddled thoughts, as she watched him start toward the stairs.

He paused then, and turned back to her, hands folded in front of his chest.  "Forgive me for never having said so before," he began, "but... I have an immense respect for you."  His eyes searched the room, looking everywhere but at her.  "Leadership is always a test," he said.  "But we have put you into an impossible position.  In the past, those I served under made mistakes.  They made bad situations worse, made them dangerous.  And I was no better," he said, scratching his chin, his eyes unfocused.

Then, as if remembering to whom he was speaking, he looked to her, his brow knit with concern.  "You have been fair to all, even when it has been difficult.  That has been a model I strive to follow.  I am proud to stand with you," he said.  "And proud to follow you, as a leader."

She thanked him, shaking, wanting to crumble, to collapse.

He searched her face for a moment, then gave a formal nod, and walked away.  His boots scuffed the stone steps.  The small door thudded shut.

Her throat tightened with a suppressed sob, and she sat down on the furs.  She lay her head to the floor, and turned to stare into the flames, low and sputtering.  The fire would soon die, unattended.  Tears soaked the fur at her cheek.

Whatever was between the two of them, it cast a large shadow over her heart, like a steep cliff under the sun.  But as large as it felt, it was nothing in the face of the Inquisition, and Corypheus.  It was a complication neither of them could bear.  Especially Cullen, she thought, with his broken body, his spirit racked with unspoken pain.  Her own pain, her fear, and grief—she could put it aside, most days.  It was behind her, following close as a scout.  But she could outpace it.  She had to.  He said it, just a moment ago.  A leader.

She was responsible for him.  She was responsible for all of them.  It was nothing she had asked for, but there was no walking away.  What would Cullen be like, she found herself wondering, if he were in her place?  What would he do?  He would take anything and everything upon himself, even if it killed him.

Was it Andrastian?  The weight of duty, of martyrdom?  She remembered Leliana in that snowy tent at Haven, her hands and face raw, praying, begging for answers from her Maker.  Her bitter resolve at not finding any answer but blood, and death.  Was this what Andraste intended for her, too?

She had not been faithful to the Elven gods for so long.  And being the Herald of Andraste—it felt like foolish superstition.  Some things were real, without question: the storm outside, the stones beneath her, the fire that still burned before her.  Pain was real.  So was kindness.  Now she had seen spirits, slain demons, had heard the voices from the Fade in that Temple.  What had Solas said to her?  There was more to see, if she wanted to see.  Her heart thumped hard.  She was not sure she wanted to look for more.

To her, it seemed, the Chantry was dying, sliced open by the death of the Divine, its heart cut out, grasping for anything to sustain it.  The faithful ones she knew, they still sought truth, yearning for a duty that could reveal it.  And Cullen sought something even harder to find: himself, away from the Templars, away from lyrium, away from the Chantry.  He was so concerned that it was selfish, but to her mind, it was the finest thing he could do.  It was what they were taught as children, what she was taught to tell the children when she became a healer: take care of yourself, and take care of those around you.  That is how you take care of the Clan.

She pushed herself up on one hand and wiped her face with the other.  She crawled closer to the fire, pulled a stoker from its stand, and stabbed into the small stack of firewood in the hearth.  Flames licked up, and sparks floated into the chimney.  The fire was not dead.  She added two small logs, and sat at the hearth, stirring the flame.

New warmth exhaled from the fire.  Finn breathed it in.  She could take care of this clan they had built, care for its people, help them care for themselves, and each other.  She would not let Cullen suffer any longer.  She would take care of him.  Even if that meant burying her want, and all her true affection.

  
brilliant art by [bazgrolnik](https://bazgrolnik.tumblr.com/post/168298415579/i-can-draw-anything-you-like-for-any-fandom-any)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive! And so is this story. This summer has been... something. But I did take some time to plan ahead for this piece. So, if you notice the total chapter number I've added, I've got a long way to go. *gulp*
> 
> I want to thank everyone who has read any bit of this or even glanced at it, everyone who liked it or gave it a critical thought. This has been such an enlightening and agonizing and amazing experience so far, and I hope that you stick with me for the rest.


	6. In the Graves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn's party scouts the Graves for red lyrium smugglers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some slightly graphic depictions of violence in this chapter. Also an animal death.

The bear lay on the riverbank before her, big as an aravel. Finn knelt near the head, and brushed a leaf from the matted fur. It was a shame, she thought, to kill her. But they had come upon her, mouth foamy, swatting and roaring at the Inquisition soldiers scouting ahead for Finn and her party. She had to protect her people.

They were deep in the forest of the Graves, tracking red lyrium. Cullen was hopeful this would lead them to the source, and, in turn, closer to Corypheus. The poor bear's fur reminded her of him, of that shaggy collar he wore. Without it, he was still broad, but so much less imposing. She wondered if his wearing it was a kind of talisman, a source of bear-like strength, and courage, that he needed. Or perhaps he was just cold. She sighed at herself. They had not been at Skyhold for two weeks now. She hoped he was well—reports from him were professional, to the point, no indication of his state of being, beyond existence. She thought of him often. All the time, if she were honest with herself.

Sera and Dorian crouched at the water's edge, washing the bear's blood from their arms and faces in the stream, in agreement, for once, that the water was too cold. Blackwall stood some yards away speaking with the soldiers, giving them orders to tell the nearest camp about the bear. "Fur, fat, meat. Whatever you can get from it, it can be used," she heard him say. Blackwall sent the soldiers on their way and walked to her, his armored boots crunching the riverbank gravel. He leaned on his sword. "I hate having to kill them. Such grand creatures," he said. "But they are easily provoked, and dangerous."

She nodded, but didn't look up. "They're frightened. I fear they've been spooked by the rifts."

He grunted an agreement. "Like all of us."

"This one had cubs," she said. She stroked her hand past the arm, toward its center. "Her skin is saggy here, at the underbelly. She lost all her fat nursing."

Blackwall sighed, scanning the trees around them as if to find the orphaned cubs nearby. _They'd be far from here,_ she thought. "Hopefully she gave enough to make her cubs strong," he said, "so they can survive."

She stared at him, feeling cold, not wanting to argue. "Hope so." When she rubbed her tired eyes, her hands came away red with blood.

She shrugged off an armored vest, lay her twin daggers on the ground, and clambered down the bank to the water. It was frigid, though the trees and land around were vivid green, like spring had freshly awakened. She splashed her face, rubbed her hands clean, brought a handful of water up to pour onto her sweaty neck. She scratched her wet hands through her hair. The air, too, was cold here, and a breeze chilled her scalp.

Sera flopped onto her back, groaning, while Blackwall dipped a cloth into the river, and wiped the blood from his Warden armor with delicate strokes. Dorian leaned back on his hands and closed his eyes, sighing. His face turned from serene to disgusted in a moment, as he scrunched his nose and grimaced.

"What in the Maker's name is that smell?" he asked, looking around him.

"Bronto shit," Sera said from the ground, her eyes shut. "Big pile behind you. Nearly put your arse right in it."

"Oh, for—" Dorian crawled toward Finn, avoiding the pile, and leaned against her. "You couldn't have warned me?"

Sera snorted. "Could've. Didn't. Would've been hilarious." She laughed hard, and Blackwall chuckled, shaking his head at Dorian's glare.

"Trudging through icy water, soaking my shoes in soggy moss, horrible little rock paths that just... end," he said, flailing his hands. "And I can't even trust you people not to tell me when I might sit in shit. This place is awful. The Elves can have it."

"I hated it first," Sera said, raising her head. "Stop agreeing with me, it's getting weird." She narrowed her eyes at Dorian, then laid her head back on the ground.

Finn brushed her wet hair from her face. "You say every place in Thedas is awful, Dorian. Why do I take you anywhere?"

Dorian sighed and examined his fingernails. "Well, I'm a considerably talented mage, I'm wonderful company, and," he paused, staring pointedly at her, "you said you'd drag me through—how did you put it?—every arse-end you could think of to punish me, until I learned my lesson."

"Punish you?" She was utterly confused. "For what?"

"For arguing with you about slaves," he said, reaching toward her to pick a dry leaf from her hair. "You said so, months ago. We were sharing a tent in that fetid swamp. You must have been half asleep." The leaf fluttered from his fingers.

"That does sound like you," Blackwall said, not looking up from his armor, a faint smile on his face.

She did recall now. Recalled how she tried to play it off as a joke, to hide her burning resetnment. Despite his practiced detachment—the wit he deployed like a shield, a defense and an offense—Dorian was kind-hearted. Which made his lack of empathy all the worse. Was he merely thoughtless, or were there walls between them that could not be scaled? Were some people simply too different to be anything more than colleagues, or soldiers at arms together? The idea troubled her, and it was not only Dorian she worried about.

Dorian turned his clear gray eyes up to her, a practiced, plaintive pose. "I've already apologized. And repented, sincerely," he said, folding his hands together like a begging supplicant. "Lesson learned."

Problem was, there was something she loved about Dorian, despite his thoughtlessness—a secret warmth, a tenderness, that she wanted near her. "I release you from punishment," she said, leaning closer into him, catching the scent he wore: sweet spices and musky wood. "What if I bring you because I like you?"

"Ah," Dorian sighed, smiling. "That doesn't make me feel any better."

Blackwall had walked a few paces up the bank, toward the main road, when he paused and promptly returned. "Tracks on the road ahead," he said. "A caravan, not long gone." He swung his heavy sword up to sheath it at his back, and poked Sera's side with his boot. She grunted and rolled over, pushing herself up.

Dorian nimbly rose and picked up his staff. He held a hand down to Finn, pulled her up to him, and brushed her back clear of gravel. She hopped up the bank to retrieve her armor and weapons, then followed Blackwall to the road, pulling on her vest as she walked.

The tracks made two wheel lines up the dry, cracked road for a distance, then veered into a shaded arbor. They followed the wheels as far as they made marks, then took cover among the trees at the edge. Blackwall crouched behind a thick trunk and motioned Finn over. She knelt beside him.

"My bet's the caravan is ahead no more than thirty paces," he whispered, "but they're covered in this grove." His eyes narrowed and searched the trees, but he shook his head. "I'd like to find them before they find us. Can you spot it?" She could see nothing from here, would have to move inward, and listen.

She stood and straightened herself, pulling in her ribcage and holding her arms close, snaking through the slim trees, forward on the balls of her feet, each step near silent. At ten paces she heard a low voice to the east. Moving toward it, at fifteen, she saw the handles of the caravan peek from behind a wide, purple bush, at least ten more paces ahead. She backed away slowly toward her companions.

"You were right," she whispered to Blackwall, pointing in the direction of the caravan. "Twenty-five or so paces, due east." He smiled, satisfied. He was as good a tracker as any hunter in her clan, though his sight was not as sharp. She would have to remember for him later: wolfberries, and an eyewash of luminet.

He adjusted the padding at his neck under his chestplate and looked to her. "How do you want to approach?"

It was her decision to make. She feared she would never be comfortable with these strategic choices, as muddled and nervous as the first time they improbably asked her to choose, on that broken wall when they made their way back to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Some part of her still wanted to dispute it. But another part was hardened now, and stronger after what Cullen had said to her, they way he had said it. His confidence in her. His faith.

She scanned the grove ahead. "They're well-hidden. Probably heard about the other caravans we found by now." Found, she said. Had killed, she meant. "I think I can sneak in and find their orders," she said. "Avoid a skirmish."

Blackwall shook his head. "Why avoid? They need to be put down, sooner rather than later," he said, his voice bitter.

"Because what we need now is the information," she said, her whisper sharp, her fear rising. She took a breath. "Because they're scared. That makes them at least as dangerous as frightened bears."

His eyes searched hers for a moment, inscrutable to her. Sad and deep, and in the next moment almost reverent. "Fine." He stood and motioned for the others to join. "We'll flank you. Make noise if you need us."

Finn took the same path across the arbor to the caravan, careful to step in the same spots, until she neared the bush. There were two men; she could hear the crunch of gravel beneath one's pacing feet, and the creaking shift of a log on the ground the other must have sat upon. She could not hear their weapons but was sure they were close at hand. Reaching behind her, she thumbed open the carved gold cap on the vial of stealth powder she wore on her belt, and scooped some of the black powder into her hand. She took a deep breath and held it in her lungs, then threw the powder against the ground at her feet. A soft crack broke the air, and black plumes enveloped her.

After the dark fog cleared, and she knew she could not be seen, she crouched forward around the bush. One of the smugglers sat on a log, calmly gnawing a burned leg of roast meat, his sword at his feet. Across a cold firepit, the other wore a sheath of arrows and a knife at his waist, but his bow was set on the ground, yards away. He paced angrily, his hands held tight behind his back. The caravan was half-covered by the bush. At least twenty large, black cases rested on its boards, overstuffed and bulging with crystals. The crystals seemed to singe the air around them, with a faint red smoke, a stinging hum. Red lyrium.

On a cracked barrel to the far side of the caravan sat an open scroll, and she knew it contained the orders they were looking for. She would have to cross between the two men to reach it, or go back around behind the bush. Crossing was riskier, but faster, and this stealth powder did not last long.

She moved to a point between the log where the eater sat and his companion wore tracks in the ground. Shifting herself straight again, she made herself take up as little room as possible, hands flat against her sides. Her eyes darted everywhere but straight ahead, keeping an eye on each of the men as she stepped toward the barrel.

The eater wiped his mouth with a greasy hand. He tossed the bone with its hanging scraps toward a pile near the dead firepit. It arced through the air inches in front her. She stopped short, and held her breath. It barely missed her leg. The pacer glanced at the eater, disgusted. "If you keep eating, we'll have to camp down here. And you're taking that pile away, understand? Don't need any scavenger birds around. Loud, ugly things," he muttered, turning away. The eater said nothing, his mouth on another blackened hunk of meat.

Finn breathed again. The barrel was close. When she passed beside it, she would slide the scroll off the barrel's lid, hoping they wouldn't see or hear, then run back to the edge of the arbor. If they chased, her flanking companions could attack from behind. It would all work. She stepped forward.

Something slammed into her, hard. She felt it before she saw it. The pacer had paced into her, had turned the opposite way, and she hadn't seen. His eyes searched the air in front of him, wildly, but could not see her. Then, he could—in an instant, the air cracked again and the black fog reappeared, erasing her stealth cover. His eyes widened in shock. Finn was frozen in place, huffing sharp breaths. They stared at each other.

The eater, she could see out of the corner of her eye, spit a mouthful of half-chewed meat and picked up his sword. He did not move toward them, but held his sword at waist-height, waiting.

Then the pacer lunged at her, and sharp pain shot down her neck. He had her hair in his fist and jerked her face close to his. "Who the fuck are you?" His eyes darted over her face, his snarl exposed a mouthful of broken teeth. "Can't be you what's taken our other men. Not by yourself," he said, pulling harder on her hair, scanning the surrounding arbor for threats.

She set her jaw hard against the pain, and hoped he could not see her fear. She could try for one of her daggers, but he might get to his first. Delay, then, hope she could live long enough for someone to come. "It _was_ me," she said, loud enough for her companions to hear. "I killed your men, and destroyed your lyrium. Just like I'll do here." Her voice shaking, she was not even convincing herself.

He snickered, never taking his eyes from her. "Doubtful. But I think Samson will want this one. Get the manacles," he said to the eater. He threaded his hand further into her hair and unsheathed his knife. Still snarling, he pointed the tip against her side, inched it deliberately up her body, dragging it across her breast, until it found the exposed skin at her throat.

She heard the arrow sing through the air, felt the draft it made on her face, for no more than a second. His body lurched with the sudden force of it. The arrow had pierced his temple, and thick blood streamed down his cheek. He coughed wetly, then crumpled to the ground at Finn's feet. His hand was still caught in her hair, and she stumbled with him, swatting him away. She slipped onto her backside in the dirt.

The eater panicked. He started toward her, sword outstretched in a shaking hand. She stared up at him fearfully and scrambled backward on her hands. He looked not at her, but all around them, hoping—in vain, Finn knew—to find where the archer was hiding. But the archer found him first. An arrow sank deep into his fleshy neck. Blood spurted from the wound like a spitting snake. He dropped to his knees, then slumped over face-first, his sword skidding across the ground, a hand landing with a greasy clatter in his pile of discarded bones.

Finn stayed down, panting. This had not been a good plan.

She heard heavy footsteps and Sera's laughter as her companions approached. Sera hopped over to Finn, swinging her bow on its sling behind her, kicking up dust. Smiling, she stood over Finn and folded her arms across her chest, pleased and proud. "Saved your arse, didn't I, elfy?" The setting sun flared behind her head, her shaggy hair pointing every direction.

Finn squinted up at Sera. The frenzy of the moment was fading. "You definitely did." She sighed, catching her breath. "Thank you."

Sera looked away, hiding a smile. "Yeah, all right. It was worth it to plug these pissbags, anyway." She looked toward the caravan heavy with lyrium, grimaced, and backed away further into the grove. Finn pushed herself to standing, and rubbed the sore spot at the back of her head where one of the pissbags had pulled her hair. Sure she'd find a clump missing, it thankfully all seemed intact.

Blackwall squatted next to the eater's body, examining the arrow in the neck, and gave a low whistle. "Nicely done, Sera." He turned the body over onto its back and picked through its pockets. He seemed to come up empty-handed and joined Sera among the trees.

Dorian was at the barrel reading the scroll. The scroll, which she'd all but forgotten while she was hoping not to die. "What does it say, Dorian?"

One eyebrow raised, Dorian handed the scroll to her. "Some very strange things, I'm afraid." He stared at the caravan. "And let's rid ourselves of this as soon as possible, shall we? Back far away, please." She stepped into the grove with the scroll, and, leaning against a tree, saw Dorian send a bolt of fire from his staff at the cases of lyrium, then walk swiftly away. Smooth flames engulfed the caravan and the cases in seconds. The crystals hissed and popped, their biting song strangled. The lyrium cracked and melted in a veil of red smoke.

As the lyrium burned, she looked over the scroll. _frothing and screaming—_   _—buying anyone who gets sick—_   _"To make something better of him."_   She shivered. The Templars she had seen, had fought, who were infected with this lyrium were... corrupted. Monstrous. Like Corypheus himself. They writhed within their own bodies, in agony. Killing them was a mercy. Was this "something better" for Corypheus, and his followers? Did he feed on the pain of his slaves? Her head ached.

"It's growing dark." Blackwall stood beside her, concern creasing his brow. "We should head back to the camp at the steps soon." She nodded. He watched her for a moment, then gently squeezed her forearm. "You're all right," he said. It wasn't a question; it was a reminder.

"Right." She gave him a small smile. He nodded to her deferentially, then headed toward the road.

As she followed him and folded the scroll into her hip pack, Sera fell into step beside her. "Get what you were looking for?" she asked.

"Yes. Cullen will be pleased."

Sera giggled. "I bet he will." She draped an arm around Finn's shoulders, and leaned into her ear. "Oh, Inquisitor," she whispered, in a ridiculously deep, breathy voice, "I _need_ you to bring those to my desk, straight away. And bring _yourself_ to me..."

Her cheeks burned. "Sera, stop!" she hissed, and shoved her away, but Sera was already running ahead, laughing. No one else seemed to have heard. She was unsure what embarrassed her more: Sera's teasing, or that the scene she painted was a fantasy Finn had already indulged in. And likely would again that night, alone in her cold bedroll. In her mind, where it was safe, she could feel his skin under her fingertips again, imagine the solid weight of him hard against her. He would never know all the ways she dreamed of him.

His body, his scent, his voice, all were fleeting sensations in her imagining. They came easily, were sweet, then faded. But what she felt in her heart, the depth of that feeling she feared she still did not know—that she planted, buried, within her. If the seed sprouted, it would not reach the light.

A pale green glow lit her periphery. It was coming again, this time a rare, but welcome, warning. Raising her arm to watch, she held her breath in her throat, steeling against the imminent pain. And it hit, at first a warm wash of sparks from her palm, almost pleasant. Then the searing charge of light boiled down her arm, following her veins like a map, burning, erupting from her hand. Her palm felt split in half, the anchor like an axe through her skin. She nearly dropped to her knees, but locked her legs tightly. This would not fell her. Not every time.

A rift had opened. The anchor sputtered and stung. It pulled at her. Northeast, it said, like a compass.

***

At Briathos' Steps, the soldiers were asleep, the guards on night watch yawning and shuffling at the edges of the camp. Dorian held Finn's hand in his and shrouded it in a flowing, blue mist of ice. She winced when he kneaded her palm, his fingertips frozen. The cold numbed the pain, but chilled her to her core. She inched closer to the campfire.

All were exhausted after the rift, unwelcome at the best of times, a nightmare at the end of a long day. Two despair demons left them choked and slow, like they were fighting through quicksand. And now, quiet around the fire, they shared the relief, and contentment, of a fight not just won but survived. They could all breathe again. Blackwall idly polished his sword, as he did every night, and stared into the fire. Sera lay on her stomach near the fire, writing in her journal.

"Elfy," Sera said, not looking up from her scribbling, "I saw that table where all the little pieces get moved around."

"The war table," Finn replied, stretching her shoulders. "What of it?"

"So do you and Cullen move your pieces there too?" Sera stared up at her, wide-eyed, but far from innocent. She was trying, and failing, not to smile. Finn shook her head, a warning.

"Is his piece big?" She spun onto her back, snorting laughter, and hid her face with the journal.

Finn slumped forward, defeated, but Dorian pulled her arm to straighten her. Through gritted teeth, she said, "It's _really_ not like that."

"No?" Dorian asked, casually, as if you had told him the kitchen had no oats for breakfast.

"No," she insisted.

He searched her face, as if he expected to find a lie in her expression, but his eyes were kind. "I'm sorry to hear it," he said. But he would not miss an opportunity to join in teasing her. "Cullen is good-looking, of course," he said in that clear, dramatic tone so everyone could hear, "but he's terribly dull. Absolutely no sense of humor." He smiled at her, wickedly.

"No, he's quite funny, really," she said, and realized even as the words were coming out that it was not a statement to help her case.

Sera and Dorian glanced at each other. Even Blackwall looked surprised. "Sera, you may be onto something," Dorian said, laughing. "Although, to be fair, humor may be a new concept to the Dalish."

"You—" She bit back a flustered reply, which would only egg them on. She huffed a short breath. "Perhaps you just have to get to know him," she said, unconvincingly, even to herself.

"Don't want to know him like you do," Sera said.

She laughed, but it was frustration, it was nerves. There was nothing funny about how exposed she was, feelings and thoughts she could barely voice to herself turned into a fireside joke. "I told you, it's nothing like that." _Trust me,_ she thought.

Sera groaned crossly, and pushed herself up off the ground. "Oh, why not? He's good as anybody else. Better than some," she muttered, tramping across the campsite to sleep, her journal held tight against her chest.

"She's right there." Dorian tenderly placed Finn's hand in her lap, and patted her head like a small, sad dog. He dug out a book and a flask from a pack on the ground, and followed Sera to the tents. "Sweet dreams," he called over his shoulder.

Then it was quiet. Finn slumped now, free to rest, to try to dull her thoughts with the sounds of the night—the humming fire, the hooting owls.

Blackwall interrupted. "I know Sera teases, but," he said slowly, "if it were true, he would be a lucky man." He was kind. He sounded like a father. It irritated her.

"I didn't think you'd join in this nonsense, Blackwall," she said, more harsh than she intended.

He held back a smile. "Forgive me, my lady. My years alone have made me lose my manners. I did have them, once."

She sighed. "I am sorry. It's been a day."

"Don't be," he said. "You'd do well to stop being sorry for how you feel."

He stood and sheathed his sword in one smooth motion. "If I may patronize you a little more..." he said, folding his arms tight across his chest. He eyed her, inscrutable again: half judgment, half pity. "By the time this is through, you will stand among the mightiest of all Thedas. Everyone will know your life. Or want to know it. So make it a good one."

He did not wait for her to respond, making his way to a tent on the far side of the fire. She had no response, in any case. _The mightiest of all Thedas._ It was an absurdity.  
  
Finn was not eager to sleep, not ready to face the lonely bedroll, or her dreams. She watched the fire's steady, rhythmic blaze, listened to the owls in the trees, calling to their mates.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this transitional chapter for some time, because it expanded from the end section of the last chapter into its own thing. I decided to let it breathe because I wanted to try and write something resembling action, which I've never done before :3 
> 
> It's also nice to have a bit of a breather, because things become considerably more tense in the next chapter...
> 
>  **MUSIC** : I don't listen to music while I write (just ambient stuff & noises), but I do have this collection of songs that I listen to while I'm planning and imagining... enjoy :)
> 
> [Sol by Leaf](https://youtu.be/cX2qPx7Z4xw)
> 
> [Das Feuerordal by Rome](https://youtu.be/Mtri9QVSuWM)
> 
> [Oya by Ibeyi](https://youtu.be/nAzjmDZD4aY)
> 
> [Glitterbombed by Charlotte Church](https://youtu.be/oA7b2HK5p0A)
> 
> [Maw by Chelsea Wolfe](https://youtu.be/be9I7QJDHLA)
> 
> [Salt by Lady Lamb](https://youtu.be/Tud_QbdhXsA) \- fair warning, this song makes me ugly cry _every time_
> 
> [Your Name on My Tongue by Billy Bragg](https://youtu.be/LyyUlHNn05U)


	7. Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New wounds, and old ones reopened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Graphic depictions of violence. PTSD triggers and flashbacks.

They were riding back to Skyhold on a cold afternoon, hewing close to foot of the mountains past Emprise du Lion, when they were ambushed.

A lone Red Templar stood in their path, a hand on his sheathed sword.As they approached, halting, he did not move.  Finn pulled at the reins of her horse, but Blackwall drove forward to the Templar.The soldier, hidden under a battered steel helmet, weakly drew his sword, and made a few tired strikes at Blackwall, missing wildly.Was he slowed by some magic, weakened by the lyrium to the point of futility? Blackwall seemed to hesitate to dispatch him, and looked at her, questioning.She could offer no answer.

He turned back to the Templar, slashed at him once, and the Templar fell to the ground.She watched Blackwall begin to sheathe his sword, staring down at the dead body, when something in his eyes changed.He turned his horse sharply, his expression grave."We should—" His eyes moved past her, and she followed his gaze.

A troop of Red Templars advanced from the south.A dozen guards and marksmen, hulking knights with flesh ripped apart by shards of lyrium.Finn went cold.She counted her party: her companions, a few soldiers and scouts.  _We should run_ , she thought, her heart pounding.But something stopped her.Everyone knew the Emprise was engulfed by these monsters.They had never been seen so close to Skyhold.They were searching for the castle.

And she would let them come no closer.Skyhold was fortified, but there were innocents there, sick and wounded.There were children.

She gave the order to attack.

Though they were unprepared and outnumbered, the enemy felt weak.The Templars were exhausted, their attacks desperate and slow.Soon the numbers shifted.

She crouched low behind a red knight, and sliced her daggers against his broken skin.The lyrium in his body cracked.The dark, sour scent of it hovered.It stung her throat.

When the knight fell, she stood.No Red Templars left alive, and her party's wounds were light.She sighed—then a force threw her down, the air struck from her lungs.

Black mist formed, and cleared, and a hooded Venatori loomed above her, held a dagger with a twisted, snake-like blade.He panted, spit foamed at his lip.

She grasped for her own weapons.Then she heard an angry cry, and a thin arm locked around his throat.The Venatori groaned and stumbled.Sera had jumped onto him from behind, choking him, dragging him down, her legs kicking.

He struck her face with a sharp elbow, and Sera fell with a howl.She landed on her feet, clutching her jaw in pain.Finn gripped her daggers and stood, ready to fight.But the Venatori had turned, blade glinting in his hand.

He stabbed Sera in the chest.

Sera dropped to the ground, clutching her arm.Blood seeped from the wound, just inside her shoulder.Her face was confused, and angry.The others ran to her.

The Venatori faced Finn again, his blade bloody, his mouth curved in a smile.

A scream erupted from Finn, more felt than heard.She thrust her daggers up and pierced his throat, up through his chin, through his face, locked inside his jaw.She held him there with her blades, rattling his skull stuck on the daggers like a head on a pike, watching him bleed, and die.

When she saw the life leave his body, her stomach lurched.She let go of the daggers as if they burned.The body collapsed at her feet.

Her legs shaking, she rushed to Sera, pale and sweating.She pried Sera's stiff, bloody hands from the wound, and slid the tattered fabric of her armor off her shoulder."Lie still," she said, and could hear her voice trembling.She dug into her hip pack for the yarrow powder she carried, to help stop the bleeding.

Dorian tried to heal her while Finn rubbed yarrow onto the wound.She could not tell how deep it was.Sera flinched and whimpered.Then she chuckled softly."Saved your arse again, didn't I?" she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut.

Finn's whole body stiffened, and she looked to Dorian, whose magic was thinning."The best I can do right now.There's not much life I can pull from these...things," he said, ending the spell, shaking his head.

She looked up at Blackwall, staring down at them, his jaw tensed."How far are we from Skyhold?" she asked.

  
***

The flat afternoon sunlight diffusing into the war room did nothing to lessen the cold sting in the air.Where it met Cullen's neck and face, his skin was chilled, clammy—beneath the armor, he itched and burned.He paced around the table, gripped the hilt of his sword, drank cup after cup of water to quiet the dry screaming in his throat.He had not slept for days.When he crashed, when his mind gave in to his body's weakness, the dreams came.

He tried to listen as Josephine and Leliana discussed the business of the day: reports sent in from the Inquisitor's party about the red lyrium smugglers, this ball the Winter Palace insisted upon having, and a missive they'd received from scouts in Wycome observing the city's tense acceptance of Clan Lavellan so near its borders."It notes particular rancor among the clan regarding the Inquisition's assistance," Josephine said, skimming the letter."Certain clan elders have made it clear that Inquisition troops are not welcome, and there are some very harsh words from a...Valenni Lavellan," she said, peering at the handwriting.

He knew that name."That is the Inquisitor's mother," he said.

Josephine raised an eyebrow."The same one who thought we were holding her against her will?" He shrugged, remembering that Ellana told him they were not close.

She shook her head."Mothers," she sighed.

"There is also a letter to the Inquisitor," Leliana said, holding the folded paper up in the light from the window, trying to see inside."Perhaps we should read it."

Josephine plucked the letter from Leliana's gloved hands."I will keep this, until the Inquisitor returns." She stuffed the letter into her stack of papers, and ran a finger down the notes on her board."Which should be in two days, perhaps tomorrow if all goes well."

Two days.It had been two weeks, what were two more days? He scratched beneath his chin, swallowing to soothe his dry throat, making a quick, silent prayer, as he often did, that she remained safe."Wycome troubles me." He moved toward its location on the table map."We should look into this situation with Clan Lavellan," he said, accenting the last syllable the way Ellana had taught him.

Leliana glanced at him, failing to hide an amused smile."I have never heard you pronounce it that way."

"That  _is_  how it is pronounced," he said, more condescending than he intended."She told me." And he could hear in that tone something of the boy he once was, the farmer's son who needed to prove himself.Perhaps it was something he would never shake.

Leliana only smiled."Of course," she said.

"We will ask the Inquisitor for her input when she returns," Josephine said, gathering up her stacks."I think that is enough for the day."

As they filed out of the room, Josephine lightly touched Cullen's arm.He turned to her, and her face was a pleasant, practiced mask that only emphasized the concern in her eyes."Commander, if I may? I do hope you are not working too much, or too late," she said, which was her genteel way of telling him he looked like he crawled out of the Void."Though you are indispensable," she laughed, "we could dispense with you for a day of rest, if need be."

All he could say was, "I'm fine.A few late nights, that is all."

She nodded, clearly used to accepting answers with no truth in them."Perhaps you could ask the Inquisitor for something to help you sleep? She made me the most wonderful tea for my nerves.It worked a dream." She gave him an encouraging smile.

When he returned her smile it did not reach his eyes, or his heart."Perhaps I will." She walked on.

The herbs Ellana had given him...they were not working they way they used to.He did not want to ask for more of her help.He wanted to ease her burdens, not add to them.The broken walls flooded the passageway with light.He faced the opening, his eyes closed, and breathed deeply of the cold air.

"Cullen?" He heard Leliana's voice.She waited for him at the end of the passage."How about a game?" she asked, opening the door."We could both use a distraction, no? And the garden is pleasant, even now."

It was warmer in the courtyard, the plants green and fragrant.Some magic, they said, kept this mountain refuge temperate, but there were hot springs and currents beneath Skyhold, warming the soil here, and the surrounding walls kept out the wind.Not everything in this world was magic, after all.Still, the garden did feel at times as though it was under someone's spell.

They sat on the stone patio beneath an arched roof, flowers tall on their stalks bowing in to brush the floor.Leliana opened the game, moving a pawn to the center, then folded her hands in her lap."So," she said, in a tone frighteningly close to an interrogation."You two have become close? You and the Inquisitor?"

"I—" He was not sure how to answer.He leaned back in the chair, his back and legs easing, even the hard wood a welcome rest."We are...friends," he said.

Leliana tilted her head, staring out into the courtyard."She is an interesting person.Very caring."

He nodded, wondering just how much of himself to reveal to Leliana, how much she already knew.

"I worry for her," she said.He followed her gaze to a low patch of lacy white flowers."When Dorothea became Justinia, she changed.She had to." Turning back, she stared at the board between them."I would not want that for Finn.But I am not sure it can be helped."

Finn.He had become accustomed to thinking of her as Ellana, he nearly forgot he was the only one.That was who she was, to him.

Even Leliana worried for her.The weight of the world was upon her.Upon all of them.On sleepless nights, when his mind spun itself around thoughts of her like wool upon a wheel, sometimes it stuck upon whether she could feel what he felt, sometimes whether he should feel these things at all.Whether he was impeding a divine plan.

He had never been a lover.Not, at least, beyond the physical.It was not precisely for lack of trying, nor of want, but each attempt had cracked beneath him like pond ice, and left him unsteady.Solona, of course—but before her, and after.He was either ill-timed or ill-suited.At first too naive, then too cynical.What was he now?

"I do not think your mind is in the game," he heard Leliana say.He looked up to see her observing him, a half-smirk on her face."You haven't even made a first move."

Cullen sighed at himself."My apologies," he muttered, and shifted a pawn into play."I was...thinking of the news from Wycome," he said, reclining further, stretching his shoulders to ease the dull tension in his back."I am sorry to hear the Inquisitor's clan does not find our aid useful, though I have some understanding as to why."

"Do you?" Leliana asked.She sounded sure that he did not.

"I have done some reading on the elves, and their history.Conflict in the past would naturally make any military interaction with the Dalish contentious.Particularly from us," he scoffed, gesturing to her."Regardless of the Inquisitor's background, we are still tied to the Chantry."

"Conflict," she said, lifting a knight, "is a generous way of putting things." She placed the knight toward center of the field."Even forgetting that history, the Chantry disregards anyone not human, unless they are willing to disown their past, and their culture." She sighed, and leaned back in her chair."We should open ourselves to everyone who needs us," she said, her voice firm, as though she were trying to convince him.It was unnecessary.

"I agree with you," he said quietly.She searched his eyes, then nodded in acknowledgment.Perhaps she had expected an argument from him.Certainly there were Templars who would offer one.A Seeker like Cassandra surely had a differing, and heated, opinion.He moved another pawn to stand beside his first."Did you ever discuss this with the Divine?"

"Many times.I think her focus was on other matters.Much like the war room," she said with a smile, "we did not always agree in the Grand Cathedral." She studied the board, but he guessed that her mind also drifted toward thoughts of the past for a moment.Then she pursed her lips, and lifted a bishop, placing it among his pawns.

"Perhaps her being gone can have some good effect," she said, sighing, and crossed her arms as she reclined in the chair."If the heads of state are forced to stop using the Chantry as a political tool, stop propping themselves up on the Divine's word, the Chantry may be able to make its own way, and change.No longer a babysitter for Ferelden and Orlais."

Cullen could not see how.In his mind, the Chantry was a political organization, one of its many failings.There was a time he would have chastized anyone with such views.But that time was in the past."Celene," he said, "certainly seems committed to aligning herself with the Chantry."

She gave a grim nod."And Alistair.Of course, he will do whatever his banns say, so long as they leave him be, and let him run off when he pleases." Leliana looked into the garden."He could be much more, as a king."

Part of him wanted to ignore what she said.But another part, a voyeur inside him that he did not like, had a festering curiosity that begged to be satisfied."How well do you know him?" he asked.

"I know him very well," she said."I know some things about him perhaps he does not know himself."

"You, Leliana, could say that about nearly everyone."

"You flatter me," she said with a mischievous smile, tenting her hands."It is your turn."

She was right, his mind was everywhere but here, in the present moment.As he searched the board for an opportunity, she said, "You know I traveled with the King, and the Hero of Ferelden, for a time, during the Blight?"

He knew that, but she had never mentioned it before, and he would never bring it up.But here it was."So, you knew Solona Amell?"

"Yes," she said, "we were good friends, once."

Cullen moved a knight into play."I knew her, a little," he lied, "from the Circle."

Leliana smiled sweetly."She spoke of you."

The curiosity festered again, the voyeur still not sated.But more than that, he felt an aching nostalgia for that time.It was not the case then, but the Circle, before it fell, seemed like a happier time to him now.They were both so young."Wh—what did she say?" He felt himself stuttering, embarrassed, as though he were that young again.

She laughed, a laugh that seemed to hold a secret she was unwilling to tell."Oh," she shrugged, "she seemed very fond of you.If you'll pardon me," she began, teasingly, "I had the impression that you were lovers."

Heat rushed to his face, his gorget seemed to close tightly around his neck.He crossed his arms and did his best to laugh, but it rang hollow."That would be inappropriate."

Leliana lifted a pawn."But not uncommon?"

Anger, and regret, churned within him.Once he thought he had loved her.Before she left, the night they broke the rules, she wanted to say goodbye to him, her friend—her only friend by then, shunned as she was by the other mages.They hid in the storage caves, with a stolen bottle of wine.For a few hours, they could pretend they were anyone else, and there was the faintest sense of possibility, a few kisses, kisses he dreamed of for months afterward, until—

But it had really been nothing.He did not even know her.Everything changed, because of the mages, because of Uldred.And she had her part in it, had  _begun_  it, he realized so much later, with that blood mage she set loose.

"Not uncommon," he said forcefully, "but it is not a relationship of equals." Leliana looked at him, questioning.His teeth ground against each other and he stared down at the board."One is tasked to watch the other as a constant threat," he said."And if the threat is realized, it must be eliminated."

He set a pawn forward, and looked hard into her eyes."Love cannot exist," he said, "between people who fear each other."

Leliana held onto the arms of her chair."I must tell you something," she said, her voice hestitant.

He braced himself for some detail about Solona, or the King, that he never wanted to know.

"I was there," she said, "when she found you.At Kinloch."

At first, he felt nothing but cold, and trapped, as though he had fallen under that pond ice, and it froze, sealed, above him.

Then he remembered, so many things he had prayed to forget, things that came unbidden at night, in dreams, in unguarded moments, alone.The bedposts dripped with blood.Bodies, slashed faceless, lined the halls.His sins thrown back at him.

"Perhaps I should not have told you," he heard her say, and she sounded so far away.

He looked out into the garden, and his eyes fell upon a bowed branch, heavy with dark leaves.His eyes traced the lines in the bark, the veins of each leaf."I would prefer not to speak of that time."It was the thing he always said.It was rote enough that he could say it without breaking.It was a prayer that drove away the pain.

"I understand," she said.   _But you couldn't possibly._   He nearly laughed.

They both stared at the chessboard, silent.It was Leliana's move.He could see her hand tremble as it hovered over the pieces."I thought about you often after that," she said softly."I pitied you then.And now—" She shook her head."I am sorry."

He would have welcomed pity.He might have welcomed madness.

But he did not say that."Unlike so many others, I am alive and well." The harshness in his voice disappointed him.That was not a person he wanted to be any longer.

The way Leliana looked at him, it was evident she pitied him still." _Are_  you well, Cullen?"

He swallowed."Of course," he muttered.

She sighed, and checkmated him.

He studied the board, to see how he had lost.The pattern was easy to read, once the game was over.

***

As evening fell, his armor weighed sharp and heavy upon him, so he removed the cold plates but kept on his leathers, to block the chill in the air.One of his candles was dying, so he lit two from its flame, for more light.The papers on his desk were a blur.He had hoped for work to occupy his mind, but his mind could not settle upon a task.He would not let it sink into what happened that afternoon.It rested upon Ellana.Thinking of her was a comfort, and a curse.

Her clan, her family, wanted her to return, to turn away from the Inquisition.And when she offered what she could, they pushed her away.He did not expect them to understand.He could barely comprehend it himself.If he were in her position, would his family think—

He did know what they thought even now.They knew only that he was alive.It had been so long since he had written to Mia anything more than the briefest of notes.He reached for clean paper.

After a greeting, and some short lines on the state of the Inquisition, he stopped.His thoughts ran to excuses, and apologies, half-formed: that he was sorry for being distant, that he could not express the reasons why.That he feared he was no longer the brother she knew.All the things he did not want to say, and not one thing he could.The paper, with its dark scratchings and crossed-out lines, fell to the floor.He needed air.

On the battlement, he leaned upon the stone and looked at his hands in front of him.He could not catch his breath, his heart hammering.How long  _had_  it been since he slept? A few minutes here and there, it felt like.Tonight, he hoped, he could find rest.No pain, no dreams.Just black, welcome silence until the morning.

A disturbance caught his ear.The gatehouse opening, horses charging in, raised voices.When parties returned at night, it was usually a quiet affair.Something was wrong.He hurried down to the yard.

The horses were whinnying and kicking dust, turning in fitful circles.Ellana, and her party, had returned too soon.

She stood among the horses, holding Sera's hand.Sera looked asleep, slumped against Blackwall, who held their horse steady.It took Cullen a moment to see the blood on their clothes.She was not holding Sera's hand, she was checking her heartbeat.

Her face tensed, then she noticed Cullen's approach.He saw the worry in her eyes, some relief, perhaps a question.He nodded to her, to assure her, somehow.She let out a deep breath, then sprinted toward the infirmary.Dorian, tousled and sweaty, rushed after her.

Blackwall dismounted with care, letting Sera down gently onto the horse.Her entire front was soaked in blood.Cullen's heart sank, but he pushed it aside and went to her.They carefully brought her down from the horse, Cullen with her arms and Blackwall her legs.She was pale and weak, but she mumbled curses at them.It was an encouraging sign, he hoped.

"I'll take her," Blackwall said, "just help me get her into my arms." He would have offered to carry her, it looked as though Blackwall had been riding for hours, but it was not the time to argue.He slid her forward into Blackwall's outstretched arms."Don't bump her around too much.Maker knows she's..." Blackwall shook his head, and cradled her shoulders.Once she was firm in his grasp, he started toward the infirmary, Cullen beside them, weakly holding her feet, all the support he could give.

The infirmary was dim, and stuffy, the air smelled of sick.Ellana searched through a chest of medicine bottles, piling them into her arms.The surgeon was trying, in vain, to examine her."Get off me," she snapped, swatting her away.Dorian flattened himself against the wall near the door.

Blackwall carried Sera to an empty cot, set her down with a grunt, and stretched out her legs, his hands shaking.Cullen knelt beside the cot and moved a straw pillow beneath Sera's head."What happened?" he asked.

"Red Templars.An ambush."

His hands went cold."Where?"

Blackwall's face was weary."Far too close.Just west of Skyhold, not two hours' hard ride from here.Took us longer because..." He stared at Sera, pushing his hair back from his face. "They're dead now. We gave word at the gate," he said, looking up. "More men are headed to the camps below, in case." Cullen thanked him, mentally mapping the blockades at the foot of the mountain, wondering where their weak points were, what needed bolstering.

Ellana approached with bottles and cloths, the surgeon at her heels."Move," she said to them.They moved.She knelt where Cullen had been, unknotted Sera's darkened bandages, and began to peel away the blood-soaked tunic from her shoulder.The wound was not bleeding freely.She soaked a cloth in liquid from one of the medicine bottles and patted the wound, clearing away the dried blood.Sera flinched a little, but was quiet, her eyes closed.

"It's not as bad as it appeared," the surgeon said, peering over Ellana's shoulder."Seems the bleeding stopped some time ago.What did you do?"

She didn't look up."Yarrow root powder.What I had, anyway.Tied her shoulder up.Gave her wild lettuce syrup." Cullen watched her cleaning the wound, her brow tight, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her eyes hard and focused.

"Lettuce?" The surgeon was skeptical.He was hardly less so.

"It eases pain." She brushed the hair from Sera's sweaty forehead."Helped put her to sleep."

The surgeon narrowed her eyes at Ellana, then leaned over to feel Sera's cheek and neck."She's warm, but not dangerously so.A little color coming back, too."

They had gathered blankets to cover Sera, and tucked them under her chin.Ellana stood and crossed her arms, staring down at her, and to Cullen, Sera looked like a sleeping child.It was too easy to forget how young she was.

The surgeon came to where he and the others stood."Will she be all right?" he asked.

She held her arms behind her back, clearly a soldier in another life."Assuming the wound stays clean and she gets enough rest, I think so.Can't say how much of that arm she'll be able to use, but for now it looks like she'll get to keep it."

"She'll be fine.She's tough," Blackwall said, gazing at Sera's small, still form.

Dorian idly stroked his chin, his eyes on the floor."I hope you're right."

"Well, I can't think anything else, can I?" Blackwall snapped.   
  
"You two, out," Ellana hissed, coming toward them."She's sleeping.The last thing she needs is you two bickering and waking her up." She pointed toward the door.

Blackwall hesitated, frowning, then turned and walked into the cold night, a sighing Dorian behind him. As he left, Dorian muttered, "Sera loves our bickering."

"Perhaps the Inquisitor should also leave?" the surgeon asked.It was less a question than an order.

Ellana looked at her, her face more challenging and hard than he had ever seen. "I'll stay, there's a bed free."

"And we may need that for someone else." The surgeon spoke to her as though she were a child."Go to your room, Inquisitor.You'll be black and blue tomorrow as it is, I don't want to see you with anything worse."

Ellana's nostrils flared, but Cullen could see she was holding back.Two healers who both think—who both  _know_ —they are right.It was like rams butting heads.

"I agree," he said.She turned to him, her mouth a tight line."If Sera is stable, you should get your own rest." She began to argue, but he leaned close to her, and he could see the fear and anxiety warring in her dark, tired eyes."No one in this Inquisition is more important than you," he said, his voice low."It is...irresponsible not to take care of yourself."

She studied his face."I believe I could tell you the same thing," she said, quiet but insistent."When did you last sleep?"

He should have known that was coming."We are discussing you at present," he said, folding his arms across his chest.

Her jaw grinding, she stared into his eyes, and he expected her to argue.But she did not."Fine," she said firmly."If  _anything_  happens," she said, turning to the surgeon, "send someone for me."

The surgeon sighed."Of course, Inquisitor."

She walked out into the night.Cullen took one last look at Sera's pale, sleeping face and followed her.

She was already headed toward the stairs.He paused outside the door, and watched her purposeful stride slow, and then halt, as she held herself tightly, her head hung low.His heart ached for her.

"Ah, Commander?" Dorian's voice softly called to him.He was standing near the infirmary wall, where Blackwall was slumped on the ground, head in hands."Perhaps you could walk the Inquisitor back to her room? She may need some assistance just now." Dorian looked past him, and Cullen followed his gaze to her, standing in the thin moonlight, stiff and cold.

"Y-Yes, of course," he said, nodding.Of course he would not think of something so simple, so natural, himself.

"I'll take care of this one," Dorian said, gesturing to Blackwall.He linked their arms and pulled him away from the wall."Come along, Warden," he said, dragging Blackwall toward the tavern."Let us drink ourselves to sleep."

Cullen ran to her."Ellana," he said, panting a little, as he approached.Startled out of her thoughts, she turned to him, her eyes wide, but so tired."Allow me to walk you to your quarters."

She looked at him for a moment, concerned, then nodded, thanking him.

They turned toward the castle.As they reached the stairs, she stumbled over a rock, cursing as she tripped.He reached to steady her, and placed his hand against the small of her back.She straightened against his hand, and looked into his eyes, blinking. Then he took her arm in his.He felt her soften, and breathe, felt the warmth of their touch spreading, a shield they held together against the cold night.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with this difficult chapter.I would love to know your thoughts. 
> 
> I can't believe I started this story in January 2017 and here we are in January 2018.Wow.Well, thanks for sticking with me! :)I have loved and appreciated every single comment, kudos and hit on this story.[And I am always up for chats and fangirling on tumblr.](http://decadentvoidprincess.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Author's insecurity note: A helpful comment on an earlier chapter let me know that when Finn thinks of herself as Finn, while Cullen calls her Ellana, per their talk in Ch. 4, it sort of looks like I forgot her name.I realize I'm taking a risk doing that, and hope that it's cleared up here, though there will be a bit more about it in the next chapter.I'm sticking with it for now because I hope to make it pay off, but if it's too damned confusing I'll retcon the whole thing.Thank you for indulging me.Also don't try to follow that chess match, I don't understand chess, [I'm not Bioware](https://youtu.be/Ky19-1fuL2U).


	8. Kindling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone again, discussion turns to the past, and thoughts of an uncertain future.

After the horses were stabled and the gate closed, the courtyard was quiet.  Cullen could hear each slow step they took up the stone stairway, hear his own joints crack, hear Ellana's deep breaths shuddering.  He held her arm in both of his.  There was nothing he could think of to say that she might want to hear.  Nothing that would do more than fill the air.

The main hall was warm, bright—and empty.  The only guard in the hall was a dozing sentry leaned against a statue, suspiciously close to a banquet table still laden with dinner's half-empty plates and wine.  Cullen led her through, up to the throne dais, to her quarters. 

There were no guards at the door.  There should always be guards at the door.

He let go of her arm with a sharp sigh, and Ellana, awakened from her quiet thoughts, asked him what was the matter.  "Stay here," he told her.  He pulled a burning candle from one of the tall candleabras that lined the hall, and entered the door.

The entryway stairs were as dark and cobwebbed as ever, and so cold that the air did not move.  In her room, it was darker still, weak moonlight barely breaking in, and chilled—no fire in the hearth, no candles lit.  He searched the dark for anything out of the ordinary, but he wasn't quite sure what was ordinary, as he had only been here once—the night she held his hand.  He checked the dark corners and alcoves, lighting candles along the way, and climbed the ladder up to the dusty landing.  Nothing.

As he came down, wax from the candle melted, burning, onto his hand.  "Maker's breath," he whispered, wincing, and tipped the candle to pour off the pooled wax, not caring where, or upon what, it landed.

"Everything all right?" he heard Ellana ask from behind him.

He paused at the bottom of the ladder.  "I asked you to stay outside," he said wearily, and stepped off, turning to face her.

She crossed her arms.  "You didn't ask me, you told me."  Her dark eyes seemed to glow softly in the dim of the room, but even in the low light he could see the dirt, and blood, staining her clothes, and her skin.

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair.  “There were no guards at your entryway.  I wanted to ensure no one was waiting here to kill you.”

“And if someone had been here?  They would have killed you instead?”

He dismissed her remark with a shake of his head and, placing the candle in a nearby holder, walked past her to the hearth, pulling logs from the small stack of firewood.  "I need to speak with the guard outside, but..."  But he didn't want to leave her.  He placed logs into the hearth, one by one.  "Let me build you a fire first, it's cold in here."

Then she was beside him.  "I can take care of it," she said, insistent.  She piled two logs into her arms and reached for a third.

She wasn't lying when she told him she wanted to do things for herself.  Now, however, when she was bruised, bloody and exhausted, was hardly the time.  "Ellana," he said, holding her by the shoulder, turning her to face him.  "Let me help you."

Her brow furrowed, and she shook her head with faint smile.  "Are you really going to call me that?"

His face warmed, as though he had been caught in some secret, but she knew it already.  He made her blush over it, once.  Letting go of her shoulder, he leaned against the chipped brick of the hearth wall.  "Not if you don't like it," he said.  The challenge in his voice was not what he intended, but it hovered in the air between them.

It seemed to surprise her, too.  She picked up another log and looked away from him.  "I like it," she said, quietly, as though it pained her to admit it.  She knelt down and placed the logs in the hearth.

For the first time in what must have been weeks, he felt like smiling.  "If you want to start the fire," he said, "I will see the guard."

She nodded, not looking up, opening the tinderbox.  "Go."  He watched her, tense and tired, set it aflame by a candle, her face glowing in the tinderlight.

In the hall, the sleeping guard had awakened.  He hunched over a table, pouring the last of a bottle of wine into a cup.  Cullen shut the door behind him with a slam that echoed through the empty hall.  The guard jumped, spilling the wine, and upon seeing Cullen, stood at a shaky attention.

The troops of the Inquisition were not professionals.  They were refugees, mainly, joiners of a cause to which they had committed themselves, for now, but perhaps not for life.  Their training, their discipline—Cullen did what he could with what he had, but none of it was a scratch on any branch of the Order.  Though even the Order had its truants.  Here, he was not surprised by it.  Sometimes, he didn't even blame them.  They were all tired.  But guarding the hall was a plum job, and protecting the Inquisitor an essential duty.

Cullen approached and stood at the guard's left, summoning all his will to be patient.  It had already been a long night.  “Why are you the only sentry in this hall?” he asked.

The guard spared a quick glance to Cullen, then thought better of it, and stared straight ahead.  “I do not know, ser.”

Cullen nodded.   _Yes, you do_ , he thought.  He circled the guard, and stood to his right.  "Do you know where the other sentries are?"

"Uh, no, I do not, s-ser." 

Cullen sighed, his teeth grinding against themselves.  It was not helping his headache.  _Just tell the truth_ , he thought, _it will be so much easier._

"Do you know how many sentries are required to be in this hall at night?"

The guard glanced at him, terrified.  Good.  "Uh, four, ser."

"Correct."  Cullen moved to stand in front of him.  "Now tell me," he said, his voice low, "why are the other sentries not here?"

The guard tried to look everywhere but into Cullen's eyes.  He had not learned the dead line of sight, the expressionless gaze at nothing, one had to wear during a dressing down.  Cullen supposed he had not enough reason to teach them that.

"I—I think, ser, they were not expecting the Inquisitor back tonight, s-so—"

"I do not recall there being an exception clause as to whether or not the Inquisitor is present," Cullen said forcefully.  He pointed to Ellana's door.  "There are to be two guards at this door, at _all_ times.  Is that understood?" he barked.

The guard bit his lip.  "Y-yes, yes, ser."

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.  "What is your name?"

"Merritt, ser."

"Merritt.  Do you think you can find the guards who are supposed to be here?"

"I believe I know where they are, ser."

"Of course you do," Cullen muttered.  "Did you draw straws to see who would be stuck here, and you came up short?"

Merritt the guard began to speak but Cullen shook his head.  "Don't answer that.  Bring them back here for their duty."  He crossed his arms.  "If I do not find them here at their posts, in sober condition, when I return," he said, "the lot of you will be sent to the Hissing Wastes.  Permanently."

The guard swallowed hard and nodded.

Cullen sighed.  "Go on," he said, "find the others."

Merritt continued to nod stiffly, as though he hadn't really heard.

"Now," Cullen snapped, and Merritt fled on clumsy feet toward the entryway.

The fire was roaring in Ellana's room.  She stood before the hearth, staring into the flames, and she had discarded her armor somewhere, washed the dirt and blood away.  He had never seen her in the clothes she wore, a roughspun black tunic, its edges frayed, and those long elven stockings that cover the foot.  Clothes from home.  They suited her, where armor did not—she was not a soldier, and the hardness of it, the cold braid of mail and stiff boiled leather, trapped her.  _She should be free to move_ , he thought, _to run_.

She noticed his approach.  "What was all that?"

No point bothering her with details of guard duty.  "Nothing," he said unconvincingly.

She looked suitably unconvinced, and handed him a small blue vial stopped with a cork.  "It should knock you out," she said, crossing her arms tight.  "You look awful."

"Thank you," he muttered.  At least she, unlike Josephine, could tell him the truth.

"Is the pain returning?" she asked.

And he found he could not lie to her.  "Somewhat," he said, moving his feet closer to the fire.  "What you gave me... it is not working as well as it used to."

She considered a moment.  "I will make you something stronger.  And you can't sleep?"

He scratched at his forehead.  The pain was not what kept him awake.  He felt as though he were on a cliff's edge, being asked to jump into someone's arms.  But deep in his mind, he felt that he would be caught, that he would be safe.  "I—I have dreams that... awaken me in the night," he said, his voice choked.  Her anxious face softened and her eyes searched his, questioning, but he held his mouth shut in a tight line.  He could only jump so far.

"Take all of that vial, then," she said, nodding to the bottle in his hand.  "But wait until you are in your room.  It's quite strong."  He stashed the vial in an inner pocket and looked at her.

"What happened out there?"

When she opened her mouth to speak nothing came.  She looked all around, rubbed her arms against the cold, and sat down on the furs before the fire.  "They came out of nowhere," she said, looking up at him. " I thought they were looking for Skyhold, but... they were coming for me.  A Venatori assassin."  She turned to the fire.  "Sera tried to stop him, she got in the way."  Her voice was shaking.  "He stabbed her."

Cullen tried to picture the scene but all he could think of was the danger she'd been in.  There had been nothing here, where they tried to be so careful, but out there... she was in danger every day.

"We did what we could," she said, "but... I thought it would best to bring her back, I don't know."  She covered her hands with her face, breathing deeply.  He went to sit beside her, close to her, their legs touching.

She took her hands from her face and sighed.  "There should be more mage healers," she said firmly.  "We need to talk about that, with the others.  And I need some better training.  In combat."  She folded her shaking hands tightly and held them in her lap.  "My, uh, skills are very poor and... that's why this happened and I... I don't want to put anyone else in danger, I need to be better—"

"Do not worry about that now," he interrupted.  She was rambling, her body so tense he could feel her trembling.  "We can discuss this tomorrow."

She nodded, her lips held tight, looking down at her lap.  He felt such a strong urge to hold her, to comfort her.  To take comfort from her.  "Do you want me to leave?  So you can sleep?"

"No," she said quickly.  Then she looked up at him, her brow tense, her eyes weary.  "No, I don't.  I don't want to be alone."  She seemed to swallow the words, afraid and embarrassed to say them aloud.

"All right," he said.  He had never seen her like this, unsure, and vulnerable.  They were both rattled, nervous, afraid of the ongoing night.  Perhaps neither of them would sleep without a vial of something.

They sat in silence.  Cullen idly poked at the fire to rustle the logs.  The room warmed, brighter, and the warmth settled him, though his eyes still burned with exhaustion.

"When I was a kid," she said suddenly, shaking him from his quiet gazing, "in the clan, you were never alone."  She looked at the fire, her eyes gentle, remembering.  "Sometimes I would wander off, or try make a tent of my own, so I could be by myself for a while.  Back then, I would have died for a room like this," she said, and he followed her eyes to the dark beams of the ceiling.  "Now, I don't know. I just feel... alone."  She shrugged, laughing, but it was hollow.

He felt what she was saying in his bones.  He didn't know how to tell her how deeply her words, her feelings, struck him.  How he understood she wasn't talking about this room.  How he felt the same.

"I think I know what you mean," he said.  He sounded so guarded he could shake himself.  “I was kind of a quiet, serious boy.”  He poked a log in the hearth, watching it spark.

She laughed, short and soft.  “I don’t think you’ve changed much.”

It was good to hear her truly laugh.  He tilted his head to the side and looked at her with a smile.  “You may be right.”

She looked at him tenderly, and he could see she was more relaxed now, her face softened.  The tense, fearful Ellana he wanted to hold, to comfort.  The gentle one, he wanted her comfort for himself.  

He sighed.  "Whenever we were free from farm work, my younger sister and brother would run around, screaming, throwing mud."  The image brought a smile to her face.  "When I got tired of breaking up fights, I would run off to this lake nearby, sit on the pier, just look at the water, listen to the quiet."

And he recalled those days with nothing like the misplaced nostalgia he'd felt about Solona, and the Circle—but with a distant sadness, as though it were someone else's life, a story he had read.  "They would always come find me. I could hear them coming yards away, yelling my name.  I would act angry, but I was secretly happy they came for me." 

The boy in the story, his early days were not so simple, or easy, but they were typical.  A village childhood, with its sorrows and its hunger.  It was what came after that was so difficult to fathom.

She turned slightly to face him and their arms brushed against each other.  "Did you swim there?" she asked.  "In your lake?"

"Yes, in good weather.  I'm not much for water but a small lake is nice.  If you can see land all around.  Lake Calenhad, or crossing the sea..."  He shook his head with a grimace.

"I'd never been on the sea before I went to the Conclave," she said.  She fiddled with the leggings on her feet.  "When they let us out of the hold, I got to really see it.  It was so... wild and strange."  He nodded, remembering the turning, bobbling ships he'd taken with some unease.

"Have you ever been to the Storm Coast?" she asked.

"No," he said warily.

"The shore is just battered by waves," she said, spreading her hands, her face alight.  "The ground feels like it's heaving."  He swallowed and felt himself blanching at the thought, shuddering, which made her laugh.  She patted his arm, and he regained a bit of color at that.

They were quiet again.  She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them tightly to her, staring into the flames.  He watched her, the light dancing on her skin, and he could not deny he was glad to still be awake, after all, to be here, with her.

"I never even knew the Storm Coast existed," she said, her eyes distant.  "When I was young, they would tell us about the elves in the alienages, like my father was.  How sorry we should be for them because they were stuck in one awful little place."

She looked up at the tall, empty ceiling.  "We thought, how lucky we are, we go wherever we want.  We get to see the entire world."  She laughed again, but there were tears brimming in her eyes.  "We had no idea our world was so small."

Part of him wanted to pull away, but he reached for her, and placed a hand on her back, stroking her softly.  "But aren't we all like that as children?  It's... part of the pain of growing up," he said, hoping it was a comfort, though it didn't sound like one.

He thought of his own path to break out, to see more of the world.  What had he seen of it?  The Chantry school.  Then the Circles.  Prisons.  Now, he was trapped only by this unfathomable war, and his own demons.  Despite everything, it was the freest, and perhaps the happiest, he had ever been.

Through the thin tunic he could feel the muscles in her back shuddering.  "I shouldn't be here," she said.

He didn't answer for a moment, but he took his hand away.  "What do you mean?" he asked softly.

"I shouldn't be here," she said, louder, angry.  "I should be home, I should be tending to my clan."  She held her head in her hands.  "I should be buried under ash at that temple.  I should be dead."  She was crying, breathing fitfully.

Her pain struck him like a blow.  "No, don't say that," he whispered, wrapping his arm around her.

"Every time I leave this place," she said, her voice thick with tears, "I don't think I'll make it back alive.  Why am I still alive?"

They were thoughts he himself had.  Questions he asked himself, near daily.  In her voice, they were terrible.  Coming from her, he could answer them.

He pulled her closer, and held her against him, her shoulder against his chest as she cried.  "Ellana, I... I believe you're here for a reason.  You've done nothing but good here."

"No," she cried.  "I've hurt people.  I've killed people."

"You've helped people," he said, stroking her arm.  "Even me."  There was not enough he could say about that.  "And everyone is here to help you.  We will not let anything happen to you."  The words tumbled out of him.  "I won't let that happen."  And he meant it.  But thinking of why they were here now, together, it was one more in a long line of promises he could barely hope to keep.

He held her there, while her crying calmed to a runny sniffle.  She raised her hands to wipe the tears from her face, taking a few deep breaths, and turned to him, just slightly, but did not look into his eyes.  "Forgive me," she said, "I... I'm tired."

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said.  He brushed his fingers against her arm, stroking.  “You’re not made of stone.  None of us are, unfortunately.  That might come in handy sometimes.”

She smiled, a little, and looked at him tenderly.  “It could.”

There was so much he wanted to say to her, his throat burned with it.  But it was nothing she needed.  It was not, if he were honest with himself, anything he could bear just now.  So he settled for what he could responsibly offer.  "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here.  And I am... glad we've become friends."

The tenderness left her face, and she pulled away from his arm, but said nothing.  Had he crossed a line with her that she had only now realized, holding her close, far too intimate?  His breath left him, an icy knot in his stomach.  She could not look him in the eye.  Her gaze seemed to rest somewhere lower.

Then in a strange, still voice, she said, "But I don't want to be your friend."

He didn't understand at first.  Then she raised on to her knees, and kissed him.  She kissed him deeply, hungrily, her hands on his neck.

He heard himself make a few muffled grunts, but it seemed to be somewhere outside of his body.  Her mouth on his was strong, stronger than he imagined, her fingers on his skin were cold.

Then he came to his senses, and his hands trembled toward her.  He melted into her touch, into her kiss, and wrapped his arms around her with a soft grunt, opening his mouth to her, and her grip softened, her fingers stroked his neck, vined into his hair.  The barest tips of their tongues touched, and his whole body was wracked with a shaky sigh.

She leaned forward, pressed him down to the floor with one hand, and hovered over him, her knee somewhere between his legs, her hands caressing his face, as she lowered herself on top of him.  He threaded his hands into her hair, the red braids and soft waves he had longed to touch.  His fingers brushed the length of her ears, and he tasted her mouth, her lips, and sighed against her with a shallow, shuddering breath.  

They kissed and nipped at each other, and he felt her legs move around him, and she sat, straddling him, where he was already embarrassingly aroused.  She pulled away from his kiss and left him puckering into the air, blinking his eyes open.  Sitting back, she looked him in the eye, finally, her own eyes dark and glassy.  She stroked her hands down his chest, and stomach, her fingers curling against him, and up to her own body.

As he watched her move, he had a moment to breathe.  In that moment, in a breath, he began to think, to see what was happening, and what would happen.  A pattern he could read from so many moves behind.  And the coldness again knotted his insides.  She began to lift her tunic.

It was what he had dreamed of, imagined in his lonely loft on cold nights, too many nights.  Yet now, with her, touching her, kissing her finally, his dark thoughts twisted against each other.  Everything he had fought to ignore, to forget, that afternoon the memories snaked into his mind, their grip as cold as her fingers on his neck.  He was so tired, nothing made sense.

"Wait, please," he sputtered, and sat up on his elbows.  He struggled to put together the words.  "This isn't what I want."  

Her arms froze, holding her tunic down, her eyes suddenly sharp and aware.  Her face, a moment ago so open and warm and willing, closed up, stung.  She moved back, off his body, and sat on the floor with a hard thump.  In that small voice again, she said, "If you don't want this... then..."

He pushed himself upright, shaking his head furiously.  "No, I—I do want this, believe me."  He wanted to reach for her, to touch her again, but it seemed like the worst idea.  He could not look at her, so he stared into the flames.  "I have ached to touch you, to kiss you, but... I want something more, too, not—"  He sighed, rubbing his tense forehead with aching fingers.  "Not one night you would come to regret," he said, his voice pained.

"And I—I do want to be your friend."  He turned to her, dared to look her in the eye again, her face still, and afraid.

The words came unbidden, he could not stop them.  "I care for you, Ellana.  I want you to care for me, I want something..."  He searched through the rubble of his broken thoughts for what he meant.  "Something true, between us."

Her eyes wide, she looked away from him, and hugged herself as if she were freezing, though the fire burned steadily beside them.  Her eyes darted everywhere around the floor, the room, everywhere but toward him.  She looked as though she wanted to speak, but nothing came.

He sat there, panting, and could not believe what he had done.  Terrified that he had hurt her, rejected her, so terrified himself by what he had said, had confessed, that he had gone cold.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the ground.  She said no more, just gripped the loose linen of her tunic with shaking fingers.

He could not ask her what she was sorry for.  Because if it was that she did not feel what he felt, could never feel that, he did not want to know it.

He rose to his feet, his body numb, and felt his way down the short stairs to the door in the dark.

On the landing outside her door, he held himself upright on the balcony rail.  Moonlight seeped in through the broken wall.  Two ravens roosted at the top of a ladder, huddled close against the cold.  They made it look simple.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. Comments and kudos are very much appreciated. Thank you for reading.
> 
> If you need something happier, please join me over in [my fluffy modern AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12788466/chapters/29183583) where nothing hurts - new chapters coming soon.


	9. Time and tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An admission.

The fire, too high, too bright, scorched the night air.A bead of sweat rolled into her hair, and she sighed, her breath heavy and hot.Then a touch, a flame on her bare back, and she turned toward him.She felt his eyes, in shadow, look into her.His fingers curled around her hip and dragged her closer—she went, thrust her own fevered skin against his.His breath licked her ear, slow, burning.Then he whispered, loud as a howl. 

"Inquisitor."

_No._ She twisted away from him, sluggish, her hands tangled in his curls. _No_ , she thought, but her voice would not come.His arms were limp now, falling away from her, his body cold.The fire had gone dark. _No.No._

With a gasp Finn awoke, her heart hammering. 

"Inquisitor?"It was not his voice, but a girl, concerned and hesitant. 

Blinking against the early sun, she struggled to sit up.She had contorted herself into an uncomfortable slump on the couch by the stairs, quilts stolen from the bed knotted around her feet.The girl stood at the foot of the couch, peering at her, a pale dwarf with worried blue eyes.Finn recognized her—Lyra, or Luria?She could not recall her name, a depressing thought.Everyone in the clan and half the merchants at trade stops were known to her.But here?She struggled to recall a single runner.Finn nodded to her for lack of a proper greeting, hoping poor sleep would be her cover.

"I have word from the surgeon.She said—specifically," the runner said tentatively, weighing Finn's reaction before she went on, "that Sera thrived under her care.But she woke grumbling and cursing, and demanded to be moved to her room at the tavern."She looked toward the ceiling as she tried to recollect the message, which the surgeon assuredly had demanded be as exacting as her care."She has since elected to supervise Sera from there at regular intervals.Since the patient is making splendid progress, the Inquisitor need not worry herself over it." 

Finn nodded, acknowledging what the surgeon really meant. _You are not needed, and not wanted._ At least Sera sounded better."Fine," she croaked, her throat dry."Thank you."When the girl left, she collapsed onto the couch. 

All night she lay awake, her limbs hard with tension, her gut aching.When dawn came, and exhaustion took her, she dreamed of him.She gathered the quilts up to her chin, the fire and the room around her both cold.She could not stay on her furs, where it happened.How foolish she had been.How reckless, and selfish. 

She wanted him, and he wanted her.There was no point denying it now, even to herself.But there was more between them.He wanted there to be something more, a different more.She was afraid of it.That, too, she could admit.There had been no thought, no desire, for anything like this when she was taken prisoner, when she was found to be necessary, when she was made a herald.Her only thoughts were to survive, to return home.What had changed?Had anything really changed? 

There was not room for this.She had done things wrong, she had encouraged too much in her own mind, betrayed herself, and him.There was no point, either, in reciting the reasons why not.Those she had repeated to herself through the night, a chant to brand them into her mind, her heart. _You are Dalish, he needs a healer, you have a duty._ And each time the rhythm would break upon a memory—of his eyes searching hers, of his tender, earnest whispers, of his touch.

His arms around her, not when she leapt onto him like a wild thing in heat, and he—tense, but wanting—reached for her.Not then, but when he held her as she wept, his strong hands so gentle with her.How he calmed her, walked her back from the cliff she had run toward. 

And he called her Ellana.The way he said it, his voice breathy and light, as though it were a gentle thing that would break under too much weight.Like it was a secret.Her name, the name no one ever used.She had always been Little Finn, Valenni's girl, the healer.To him, she was only herself. 

There had been lovers in her life.Easy, giving, sensual.In the end, distant.Detached.No one who made her feel this way—aflame, but safe in his hands.At first, she dismissed it as infatuation, as lust.Something she could ignore, until she couldn't.Something she should not indulge in, until she did. 

As time went on, as the night had gone on, her heart told her things she did not understand, insistent and urgent, in a language she could not parse.Perhaps she should not try. 

The cold room brightened as morning warmed the windows.Stiffly she stood and took a deep breath.She drank water from the jug on her table, washed her face in the basin.She changed from her leggings and tunic— _her_ clothes, that her mother had woven and sewn—into the breeches and boots they'd given her, the undershirt and jacket.The Inquisitor's clothes. 

Scanning the empty room, she looked for something to keep her there, afraid—she could also admit—to leave the room.To face the day.Her eye fell upon a stack of reports on the desk, atop them a summary of reports from the smuggler routes and engagements, and a note from the captain at the mountain detachment below on the new fortifications against the Red Templar threat. 

Sighing, she closed her eyes tight.She had a duty. 

Gathering up the reports close to her chest, she made her way to the war room and asked Josephine, as she passed, to call the others. 

The heavy door closed her in, and echoed its lonely finality around the still room. She put down the papers and flattened her hands against the table map.Her eyes followed the routes she had given in her reports, and they had already begun to mark the possible paths to the source.There were other markers, requests for assistance, calls for aid, threats and intrigues.So many tasks left undone.They stretched from the deserts to sea, up even to the wilds of the northern Free Marches, her home. 

The door behind her creaked open, and as she turned, she saw his crimson sash, his head bent by the weight of armor.Cullen looked up and stopped, staring, the door leaned against his shoulder.His eyes were puffy—he had finally slept, thank the Creators—and as they softened on seeing her, became grieved, and uncertain. 

Briefly she had imagined, when she saw him again, she would burn with shame and regret.But the lightning-bright ache she felt for him nearly split in her two.She wanted to run to him, to smooth back his rumpled hair, to take him into her arms again. 

"Pardon us," Josephine's muffled, polite voice spoke from behind the door.Finn could see Cullen blink back to reality, and she turned to the table as he opened the door.She swallowed her feelings, fitful and tight in her throat. 

Her advisors gathered, they began their discussions, and Finn gathered herself, quietly commenting when asked for her input.Cullen, formal and stilted, muttered his short answers without emotion.She caught herself watching him, the rigid grip around his sword hilt, the nervous shake of his head.He did not look at her again.Josephine and Leliana noticed, and shared a few obvious, questioning glances.It all wore upon her nerves.The thoughts she tried to ignore clouded her mind, clenched her jaw, and the meeting crawled on. 

"And the last order of business," Josephine declared, "is how we shall behave at the Winter Palace." 

Finn's teeth ground against each other."Is it necessary to discuss this just now?" 

"I second that," Cullen said, his voice weary."Can it wait?"He did not speak directly to Finn, but all the same something in her fluttered nervously. 

Josephine's pleasant face tightened with frustration."We have delayed this several times.The ball is two weeks away.Putting aside the Empress herself, this is a perfect opportunity to make lasting connections, a good impression," she said excitedly."The Game can be difficult but if we—"

"I'm sorry," Finn interrupted."There are Red Templars nearly at our doorstep, Sera could have died last night, and all we are _required_ to do is keep Celene alive."Shecrossed her arms tightly."So forgive me if I am less concerned about etiquette at a fucking party," she said with a nervous laugh. 

Josephine stared at Finn, her nostrils flared."And if you will forgive me," she began, her voice cool, "I must assume you are merely ignorant, and not willfully negligent."She set down her candlelit noteboard carefully. 

"Our resources are almost entirely dependent upon the goodwill and faith of the nobles you and the Commander dislike so much," she said, glancing sharply at Cullen."We feed people, clothe them, house them, heal them.Give them weapons to fight for us.This takes enormous funds and logistics.At the Winter Palace, we have the chance to unite ourselves with the ruling power of the Orlesian Empire, to solidify these bonds of faith which we desperately need." 

She leaned toward Finn over the table, her jaw set tight."We can continue to take care of all the people here, and to fight our fight.And the cost to you is one night at a fucking party," she spat.Then she straightened, composed herself, and took up her noteboard with assured grace. 

"To that end, I will schedule this discussion for tomorrow," she said."That is all."Finn could only nod mutely, her face burning. 

She stood in place as Cullen hurriedly left, Leliana close behind.As Josephine went to the door, Finn stepped toward her and began to speak, but Josephine stopped her."I apologize for my tone, Inquisitor," she said, her manicured hand landing gently upon Finn's own, "but I do hope I was clear regarding the necessity of this." 

Finn shook her head."No, I—"

"And I understand yesterday was very trying, though I am cheered to hear Sera is well."Josephine would not let her apologize.This was clearly where Finn was ignorant—in graces and manners, in persuasions, and Josephine so skilled.She could not imagine that a trap might be laid for her in a sentence, or a gesture, at Halamshiral, but Josephine knew. 

"Ah, I nearly forgot," Josephine said with a smile, though Finn was sure there was little Josephine could let slip her mind."I wanted to give this to you personally so it was not lost in the mountain of reports.Notes from Wycome, and your clan.There appears to be some discontent," she said softly, handing her a small stack of folded papers.One at the top sealed with a line of thick amber resin.She could smell it—buttery and sweet, fura tree sap.Her clan used it to haft arrowheads.A letter, from home. 

Josephine left quietly, while Finn cracked open the seal.She read the greeting: 

_ Emma lin, emma vhenan— _

Her stomach dropped.It was from her mother.

She folded the letter into a pocket at her hip.  

*** 

Even before midday, the Herald's Rest was thick with bodies and raucous conversation, soldiers trading road stories and traveling merchants plying them with ales.Finn, weighed down by a tray full of food from the kitchens, carefully swept past a group or two, head ducked, until they recognized her.No one stood at attention, or—to her great relief—genuflected, but everyone quieted, straightened, and made room.All eyes were on her, even those who continued their stories.She longed for the day she could be anonymous again.With a quick nod, she hastened upstairs, her tray wobbling. 

As she reached Sera's bright corner room, laughter echoed into the hall."He landed right on it.Yowled like a cat who got too close to the fire," Blackwall was saying, while Sera giggled, breathless."Didn't sit for a week." 

Finn leaned on the doorframe.Blackwall sat beside Sera, who was propped against pillows and stretched out on her window seat under a pile of shabby wool blankets, holding her stomach with her good arm, laughing.The injured shoulder was thickly wrapped, her arm slung, tied tight against her.She was still pale, lips chapped, eyes ringed with dark circles."Don't make me laugh, it hurts," she said, when she noticed Finn.Sera waved to her with a shy smile. 

"Brought you some food."Finn set the tray on a small, shaky table.It was crowded with hard cheese and flaky meat pies, bottled ale, crusty bread still warm from the oven, a jar of amber honey—and two heavy butter cakes, thick with brown sugar frosting.

"Cake!"Sera pulled one of the plates onto her lap, snatched a fork from the tray and dove in.She groaned with pleasure."Whenever I ask for cake, they tell to me to make it myself.They said _Josie_ sends them to the nobles," she said, licking her fork."Won't they be old when they get there?"

"That's where these were going," Finn said, squeezing between the worn, embroidered pillows on Sera's other side and pulling her legs up to her chest."I took them while the cooks weren't looking."Sera's eyes lit up. 

"Send them cakes."Blackwall shook his head."Rather give them a two-fingered salute and a box of dog shit."Finn did not entirely disagree, but after her... talk with Josephine, she thought better of agreeing aloud.

Sera snorted, mouth full of pilfered cake, which surely made it taste all the better."Box of dog shit, that's a good one.Here, eat it!"She scooped a massive lump of dense cake onto the fork and pointed it toward Finn, who barely managed to wrap her mouth around it.She wasn't fond of sweets, but it made Sera happy.

Blackwall sighed as he stood up."Where do you elves put it all?"

"I can see where you put it," Sera scoffed. 

Finn began to chide her, but Blackwall laughed."This?" he asked, hand on his stomach."This is cultivated mass.Every pound makes me more powerful."

"Me, too," Sera said, patting her own tiny frame."Gonna get big and tough." 

"Well, I think you're a fine figure of a man, Ser Blackwall," Finn told him.

Just above his beard, Finn caught the edge of a blush on Blackwall's cheeks, and he looked out of the sunny window with a smile."Thank you, my lady.And now I will leave the healer to her work," he said with a short bow, and left the room. 

Sera groaned."Ugh.Not Beardy as well.You'll go for any old thing, won't you?" 

Finn ignored that."How are you feeling?" 

Sera tried to shrug, but winced from the effort."All right I guess," she muttered, rubbing her shoulder. 

" _Don't_ touch that," Finn said sharply.Sera was young and healthy and by all rights she would heal soon, if she didn't mess with that wound.They had been lucky the blade was not poisoned, and she showed no signs of corruption or sickness, only pain.Finn was struck, suddenly, by the memory of it, a visceral flash of fear.It had not even been a day since.A cry caught in her chest, and she held tight onto Sera's good arm—Sera, alive and warm next to her, pouting, defiant, like a child who's learned something they don't yet want to know. 

She stroked Sera's hair from her face, as she had the night before, but now Sera was awake, listening."Please," she said, trying to hold back the anxious edge in her voice, "never do that again." 

With the slightest shake of her head, Sera bit her lip."He was going to kill you, I had to," she whispered."You're the important one.You're going to fix everything.I'm nobody," she said with a nervous laugh, though her eyes were wet. 

Words like that made their own kind of wound.They could fester, and rot."You can't think like that.You are so important."Finn squeezed her hand."I need you here, Sera." 

She saw Sera's eyes tremble and threaten to spill their tears before she turned away, to the window."Don't be stupid," she said, laughing, pulling her hand away to wipe under her eyes. 

"You all right?"  Sera asked, tucking her hair behind her ears."You look a bit shit."

Finn had avoided the mirror today, the mirror she'd begun to inspect regularly.Why was she so concerned about how she looked now?She barely cared before."Don't worry about me," she muttered. 

"Come on.Can't sit around worrying about me."

Finn sighed, shaking her head."Just... it's something else.It's very—"What was it, exactly?She did not know how it made her feel."Confusing," she said, with a grimace.

Sera looked at her with concern."Is it to do with Cullen?"

She blinked at Sera."Why do you ask?"

"He came by before."Sera poked at the cake on her lap with the fork."He looked like you.Sad.Like he'd been wrung out." 

Yes, she had seen his troubled face, his pensive eyes.She knew even less what he felt, other than what he said: that he cared for her.His words echoed in her mind.They crashed through the rumble of her thoughts like thunder.He had meant it. 

"There is... something," she began, "between Cullen, and me."Sera's eyes brightened, though not as intensely as they had for cake."And I can't believe I'm telling you this.But it isn't what you think," she stressed.

"Don't care what it is.It _is_."Sera uncorked one of the ale bottles and took a drink, looking at Finn."And I didn't think anything.Wanted you to think it."She passed the bottle to Finn. 

"And why is that?"Finn drank the ale, fizzy and warm, and realized it was the only thing in her stomach.She broke off a chunk of cheese, oilier and saltier than rock-pressed halla cheese from home.It didn't have the same acid bite.She missed that. 

"Because I don't like Solas," Sera said quietly. 

Finn quirked her brow at Sera and chewed her cheese.Not understanding Sera was a common feeling among many, she had gathered.

Sera sighed."Elves always go with elves.So when they bang their bits they think it _means something_ ," she said, her voice mock-deep."You're elfy enough.He's—I don't know what." 

Swallowing hard, Finn rubbed her forehead."There is no banging.There is no... anything.I don't even know him well.I'm not sure anyone does."

"You like him, though?"

She liked talking with him, but he could be combative, condescending.Finn was never sure where she stood with Solas, and she feared he would be a hard person to please, if she ever tried.She knew many people like him."He reminds me of home, in a way." 

Sera took the ale again."Anyone like Cullen at home?" she said with a smile. 

Finn shook her head. 

Sera looked down, tapped her short nails against the brown glass of the ale bottle."He's good.I think he's good," she said."You know, in case you're afraid.Of templars."

"It isn't that, at all."Finn scratched at her legs, trying to collect her thoughts."Before all this... my clan, all I really knew, were Dalish.There were merchants and traders but... they were not a part of my life.Do you understand?"

"No."

Finn sighed.She was making a mess of her own thoughts.It may not be possible to explain to anyone but another Dalish. 

"It sounds stupid to me," Sera said defiantly."You don't want him cause he's... what?Hairy, got round ears?You sound like a _shem_ that calls you knife-ear.Bit sad you can't see that."She turned to the window and bit at a fingernail. 

"But I don't see it that way," Finn said, softly.It sounded like someone else saying it.Perhaps it was someone else.Ideas from home—harsh as homespun wool, sour as that halla cheese.The things they said to the young ones to discourage them away from those merchants and traders. _They will use you.Might as well be a gutter elf in the alienage.Might as well be a slave._

She looked at Sera, red-faced and chewing her nail.Was she a "gutter elf" because she'd been born in the city?And stayed there?No.Did Cullen want to use her?She could not imagine it.There were good reasons to stay apart, to stay free, to live the Dalish life.There were poisonous ones, too.

"You know he's good, though," Finn said. 

"Don't know.You never _know_."Sera set the ale bottle on the tray, and the plates shook."For now, he's good.Maybe he messes up later.Then you deal with it."She looked at Finn."Maybe you mess up.And he has to deal with you." 

They were wiser words than she would expect from someone so young.But Sera had many experiences, so much of a life, that Finn never had.Many of those she didn't envy, but they had given Sera much in return.They made her who she was, someone Finn admired."I will think on it," she said quietly."Now then."She tore a piece of bread from the loaf and opened the honey to drizzle it on top."You must eat all of this food.That's an order." 

*** 

She left Sera dozing, full of food, resting like a cat in the sun of her window seat, and stepped out into the thoroughfare, painfully bright, though a chilled breeze blew.It was quieter than the tavern, emptier, the merchants at their stalls shuffling and bored, the few soldiers unburdened by duty wandering aimlessly.Finn found a deserted corner shaded by trees.Slumping against the stone wall, ground cold beneath her, she took out the letter from her mother.

First, complaints about the brutish shem soldiers, the ungrateful shems in Wycome, about Keeper Istamae's insistence that part of their purpose was to help those who need it, whatever they may be.It was clear Valenni disagreed.Then the expected part. 

_ If that shem army is not holding you against your will, come home.  _

_ Saran's cough is no better and he never seems to get enough air.Nessa is poorly every moontime, with a catch in her side.And little Tamlas, his foot is still turning.There are many more.Thenel is worked to the bone with you gone. _

_ Come home, da'len.We need you here.Do your duty.Let them fight their war without you.You walk the Way of Peace.You know how few of us there are who do this.Do not let them force you to stray. _

It was signed, _Mala mamae, mala vhenas_.

Slowly she walked across the thoroughfare, toward the stairs, up to the main hall, letter in hand.There was not a question about Finn herself in it, no hope for her safety or happiness. 

It was easy to see through her mother's pleas.She wanted Finn there, to stay in the clan—not become the healer for a new clan, not to leave to work with other healers.To stay.To make children.To stay safe there, not to venture.Valenni had been fearful for so long.What was once caring became controlling, what was protective became stifling.Was it like this before her father had died?She could not remember. 

But there was also truth in what she said, Finn knew.She felt it. _Vir atish'an_ was a fragile path.Thenel had described it to her as trying to grow roses without being pricked by thorns.Already she was testing it, trying to spread peace by wielding the sharp edge of war. 

Though she knew her duty in both worlds, and would not leave this one without healing all she could, without mending the sky and those beneath it... she _would_ leave it.Her life, though small, was elsewhere.And she would return to it.It would be wrong to become attached.It would hurt more, in the end. 

Cullen was not like anyone in her past.He did not seek anything easy, or distant.And she did not want to be the cause of more pain than what already weighed upon him so heavily.She could ignore it, ignore him, leave the wound she had made open—or she could fix it now, burn it shut.She could let him know she was sorry for what she did.That she would not let it happen again.

She stepped into the main hall and entered the rotunda, taking the path to Cullen's office, when she was startled by a voice, so close."What troubles you, lethallan?"

Solas stood nearby, camouflaged by the swaths of muted color he had painted along the walls of the dim, round room. 

"Forgive me," she said, "I did not see you.I would have greeted you."

"There is no need to be so formal."He pointed to the paper still in her hand."Unwelcome news?"

She sighed, folded the letter and put it back in her pocket."Of a sort.A letter from home."

Solas smiled, questioning."Is that so unwelcome?"The blue-flamed lamp which hung from his scaffold, a spectral blue she had seen only in spirits, set his eyes almost aglow. 

There was little she wanted to tell him of the letter itself, of her family, of the sorrow and unrest within her."They want me to return," she said plainly."And the simple fact is that I cannot, because of this."Finn turned her left palm up, open, and she felt the anchor pulse like her blood, could nearly see the strange magic ebb, and rise, with each beat of her heart. 

He stepped forward and took her hand in his, his fingers slender but strong, his skin cold.He seemed to look into her hand, and sharp worry clouded his face.Dropping her hand, he said, his voice resigned and low, "Facts are rarely simple." 

Once, he had taught her to use the anchor.But he had never been able to help her control it, to ease the pain it caused.She could not hold him responsible for that.No herb she took, no potion she created had made any difference, either.It was an unknown.

"Would you go home," he asked, "if you could?"

Finn sighed, and glanced around the room at Solas' fresco, the wolves in shadow, the swords and flames."Yes.I've known no other life." 

"But you do, now," he said, gesturing around them, to Skyhold, to the Inquisition.

If she had not become... whatever she was now, if the anchor had taken someone else's hand, and she survived the Conclave, she would have stayed.For a time.To heal and help, where she could.Who could say how long her stay would have been?"I have already chosen a path," she said."You know of _vir atish'an_.The Way of Peace?" 

Solas shook his head, his mouth a grim line."I know there is no such thing," he said bitterly.He folded his arms tight and straightened to his full height."Long ago, the elves had a saying.'The healer has the bloodiest hands.'Do they say it still?"

"Yes."She swallowed.How many times she had heard it during her apprenticeship, had heard friends and lovers say it, when they lamented the life she chose—that had been chosen for her, by her mother.Her mother, a weaver, she a healer.Two sides of Sylaise.

He narrowed his eyes, studying her."You know what it means, I see.How difficult the healer's path must be." 

"I thought I knew," she said."I never imagined healing a wound so deep as the breach." 

"True enough."He smiled sadly."But that is not what I meant."His arms dropped to his sides, and he took a small step closer, near enough to whisper."How deep does the wound go in you?" he asked."For you do not truly wish to return home." 

She stared at him, and his pale eyes searched hers.She wanted to deny it, and found she could not.But her feeling did not change the truth."I must," she said."I will, when this is done." 

He nodded."Of course you _will_ , he said."But what of the meantime?"

"What of it?" she snapped, frustrated by his dancing so close to his point, never seeming to land upon it. 

"You are right," he said."You cannot leave."He took her hand in his again, traced his finger along her palm.The anchor twitched and bit at her.He looked into her eyes."In the meantime, find something for yourself.A reason to stay, beyond this," he said, gently let her hand fall."Beyond duty."

Words caught in her throat, sputtering.Something for herself.What she wanted had never been the reason she did anything.Her wants she had learned to forget.Until recently, when what she wanted had become impossible to ignore. 

She looked hard at Solas."And when this is over?I go back to what I have always been?" 

He looked to the floor, and shook his head."You do not know how this will end," he said."You should find happiness with the time you have." 

Every day she worried.Worried that she would die, that Cullen would succumb, that the Inquisition would fail and all of this would have been for nothing.If any of it came true, had she already wasted time—time she could have spent being happy, giving in to what they both wanted?Suddenly she felt even more foolish than she had the night before.The time they had was all there was. 

Finn stroked her lip nervously, her mind spinning."Thank you, Solas," she said.

Solas tilted his head, the glow of the blue flame shining on his skin."Do not thank me." 

***

When she pushed open the creaking door to Cullen's office, loose on its rusted hinges, he was seated at his desk, dispensing orders to a crowd of soldiers.When he noticed who had entered, he seemed to lose the track of his thoughts, and sent the soldiers away, his brow knit tight.She stepped closer to his desk."Inquisitor," he said.Like in her dream, she did not want to hear it. 

"Could we talk?" she asked, her hands in tight fists at her side, her breath shallow. 

He nodded, stood, and opened the door to the battlements. 

She was quiet as they walked out into the day and the cool wind, quiet as she paused near one of the stone posts, taller than her head. _I don't know what I came here to say._ So she remained quiet, and looked out toward the snow-capped mountains. 

Cullen leaned upon the stone next to her."It's a nice day," he said softly.As though they were having an everyday chat. 

She turned to him, incredulous.When she caught the faint smirk on his face, she could not help but smile, shaking her head."You... make me laugh," she said, "though I am not always sure you intend to." 

He looked at her tenderly."I do intend to." 

The sadness in his eyes, untouched by his smile, the sweet longing in his voice, made her heart wrench. 

"I thought you wouldn't want to speak to me," he said."But here you are, so... I am relieved."

Her pulse thundered."Cullen," she began, and she was unsure, for a moment, whether she had ever called him by his name, to his face.It was intimate.She knew now why he seemed so careful with her name, felt why his breath seemed to catch every time he said it.Everything in her hands and her blood wanted to touch him again. 

She forced herself to look into his eyes."I want to apologize," she said, "for my behavior last night.I put you in a very uncomfortable position, and I am sorry to have done it."She fisted her nails into her palms to stop her hands from shaking. 

Cullen looked down at the stone walkway beneath them, unfocused and blinking."I—"He turned to her."You have nothing to apologize for.I am the one who pushed you away," he said, his voice cracking, "and I fear that I've hurt you.That was so utterly far from my intention."His eyes searched hers."And I only hope you can forgive me, in time." 

She inched closer to him."No," she said."I am not hurt, and... you were right." 

He looked surprised."Don't hear that very often," he muttered. 

She huffed a laugh, and bit her lip."I would have regretted it.I do.I wish I could undo last night.Start over."

After a pause, he answered, "Not all of it," turning his eyes down shyly."Despite my reaction," he said, shaking his head, "I have to say that kissing you was... really nice."When he smiled at her, a warm blush colored his face, and neck. 

She shivered and felt herself flush, remembering the feel of him, his body under hers, his sweet, surprised face."I would... regret not telling you.I do care for you," she said, her voice fluttering in her throat. 

"You do," he whispered, less a question than a confirmation.His lips parted softly, trembling with each breath.She reached up to place a hand upon his armored shoulder.The metal was warm in the sun, and she caressed it as though she could feel him again.As though the layers between them, between these things they represented and their real selves, were gone. 

She focused on her hand at his arm.  "But I—"   Her thoughts, her fears, sparked and flared in her mind like a new fire, catching everywhere.  "I don't know what to do.  I don't know if this is right.  If it's even possible."   She looked into his eyes, intense and near golden in the midmorning light, his gaze meeting hers, and his hand moving to wrap around her forearm, his grip firm. 

"Neither do I," he breathed, his eyes roaming her face, and she watched the cords of his throat shifting as he swallowed."It seems too much to ask.But I want to ask it."  His conviction calmed her, the fire in her steadied and burned.  He gently pulled her closer, brought his other hand to her side, his knee pressed against the inside of her thigh.She fingered the silken rope at his waist, stroked the cold metal of his belt buckle. 

"Please," he whispered.His head dipped toward hers and her eyes closed when she felt his breath upon her mouth. 

He kissed her, slowly, softer than she had kissed him before the fire, when everything was a frenzy.Now, she could feel his lips tender against her own, feel the sharp edge of his stubble scratch at her skin.She could hear his breath, and her own heart beating.Though the wind whipped around them, at their feet, into her ears, it was nothing. 

And she heard, from what seemed a far distance, a voice.She opened her eyes, cloudy as though she had been asleep.  A scout approached, delivering a report, oblivious.

Cullen parted from her, his face surprised and guilty, like a young soldier caught shirking his duties.  The scout realized who, and what, he had interrupted.  He stopped, stared at each of them in turn, and began to stammer an apology.

Cullen only glanced at him, and said quietly, "Not now."The scout mumbled a stuttered assent, and hastily disappeared. 

He turned back to her and leaned his forehead against hers, sighing."There's always something more, isn't there?" 

She stroked his cheek, and brushed her nose against his."Something more?" she asked."I hope so."  

He pulled her closer, and she felt his smile against her lips as he kissed her again. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translations cobbled from DA wiki & other canon stuff:
> 
>   * _Emma lin, emma vhenan_ : my blood, my heart
>   * _Mala mamae, mala vhenas_ : your mother, your home
> 

> 
> Thank you so much for reading. It truly means everything to me. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, or get in touch with me on [tumblr](http://decadentvoidprincess.tumblr.com/). Comments are to me as cake is to Sera :)


	10. Come aloft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What comes next.

For the rest of the day, Finn’s mind wandered and waved, settled again and again upon Cullen.  She caught herself stroking the lip he had grazed with his teeth, her chin scraped raw by his stubble, tracing each path he had taken upon her skin.  A runner observed, when she tried and failed to digest his reports, that she seemed happy.  

She was happy.  And she was terrified.  One moment her heart beat faster with the memory of his touch, and heat spread, from her chest to her eyes to her face.  The next, her blood was ice, her stomach tight as a fist.  Everything had changed so suddenly.  It could change back in an instant.  If this were as ephemeral as it felt, if there was nothing to hold onto, it could slip from her hands, like smoke.  She did not want to let go.  Not yet.

Part of her wanted to rush to him again, to look into his eyes and know that it really had happened.  Another part urged her to avoid his tower, not to test the fragile surface of what had begun between them.  Duty, however, pushed her toward him.  

Finn found him at his desk, as ever, head leaned upon his fist, quill scratching at parchment.  He glanced up when the heavy door creaked open.  When he saw it was her, he straightened, his eyes softened, and he smiled.  “Hello,” he said softly.  

His uncombed hair curled at the edges, around the shell of his ears, at his forehead.  The shadows in his gaunt face were no lighter, the shadows under his brown eyes still dark.  A growing beard crept toward his collar.  But he smiled at her, the sharp lines in his cheeks deepened.  Her desire for him ached into her fingers.  

“Good afternoon,” she said.  

“Afternoon?”  He pushed back his chair and stood, stretched with a grunt, and looked toward a small window.  “Where has the day gone?” he sighed.

“Where all days go, I’m afraid.”  She stepped toward the desk, strewn with scattered sheaths and scrolls, half-empty bottles of ink, emptier bottles of wine.  “Busy?”  

He shyly turned away, and gripped the back of his chair.  “Attempting it.  I’m afraid I’ve been somewhat distracted today,” he said with a soft laugh.

Finn sat in the shabby chair opposite.  “I believe I know the feeling.”  She hugged the papers she had brought to her chest and leaned against the chair back, tired, but happy to look at him and to hear his voice.  She could stay there, she thought, for the rest of the day, if anyone would allow it.  She laughed and shook her head.  

He joined her laughter.  “What is it?” he asked, and took his seat again.  

She truly did not know.  But it felt so good to laugh with him.  “I came here for work, you know.”  

His laugh deepened.  “Is that so?  I thought you came to distract me further.”  

“Never,” she said with a smile, though the thought was tempting.  To come to his office whenever she wanted, sit upon his desk, tousle the curling edges of the hair he tried to keep so smooth and see him flush to his ears.  To walk with him along the battlements again.  To have him lean her against the cold stone, shield her from the mountain wind with his warm body, and take her face in his gloved hands.  

It would have to wait for another day.  

She laid a stack of papers on top of another stack of papers.  “I have reports for you,” she said, “and a few requests.”  

Cullen leaned forward and rifled through the sheets.  “ _Your_  requests?” he asked, his eyebrow quirked.  

“Not yet,” she said, and the husky depth in her voice surprised her.  When the blush she had imagined began to spread across his face, she felt her own cheeks warm.  

She pointed to a sheet lined with perfect, even handwriting.  “This request is from Helisma.  She’d like to go on with her research on the rifts.”  

He lifted the paper in that gloved hand and peered at it.  His eyesight was as bad as she’d feared.  She would find him something for that—exercises, make sure he was eating properly.  Rest.  

“Soil samples,” he mumbled, scanning the page, “fauna…  _Halla in the Heather_?  That book was in our library at the Circle, as well.  Lovely illustrations.”  He gazed at dust falling through a sunbeam from the window. “I remember one of a group of halla in a field, beneath a tree, all asleep, even in the day.  Do they do that?”  

“Not really,” she said.  “More likely they’d be butting heads or chasing each other up rocks.  Or eating, they do that.”  

He let out a faint laugh.  “Of course.”

“And there’s no heather where I’m from,” she said.  “Just wild grass and warm water.  Thistles and buttercups.  They like to eat those.”  

He listened to her, nodding.  “I would like to see where you are from,” he said softly, as though he were afraid to say it with meaning.  

There were so many things she could show him there.  The clear Minanter as it flowed through the rocky outcrops.  The sky that felt so low and heavy during a storm.  The trees thick with star-shaped leaves that made the wind sing.  They could walk together along the riverbank, and sit beneath that heavy, gray sky, waiting for rain.  

“So you’ve found her research useful?” she said.

“We’ve been able to avoid the worst of what these rifts cause in the animals.  Surely you’ve seen the bears.”

“Yes, sadly.”  Finn recalled the bear they’d seen in the Graves, its cub missing, its maw bloody.  

“We’ll do what we can to aid her.  The soldiers are grateful.”  

The soldiers.  The men and women who trudged and searched and fought for them all.  The men and women who died.  He read through another report, pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at its contents, in a look she once imagined was anger, but after watching him closely, so many months now, she knew was concern.  She wondered how Cullen could bear it, sending them out to meet an unknown fate—daughters, fathers, friends, people with lives and homes and hearts.  She wondered, and then suspected she may not like the answer.  How could she bear it, when she herself was above him in command?  

“How are the soldiers?” she asked.  She shrank under her own cowardice, avoiding the question in her heart.  

He gave an ambiguous grunt.  “I think we would all like to make more progress against the enemy.  To find some victories, however small.  Instead we go to parties.”  His jaw tightened as he surveyed his cluttered desk.  

“You would rather avoid Orlais?  It is—” She struggled to put it in a positive light.  “I can see that their help would be useful.  Diplomacy, I suppose.”

He scoffed.  “What passes for it, anyway.”  He rubbed a circle into his temple.  “I am not against diplomacy.  Far from it.”   His eyes met hers, earnest and searching.  “We’ve made great strides.  Yet there is so much we still do not know.  We need answers.  Some will not rest until we are on the attack again,” he said, swallowing the bitterness in his voice.  “I would be happy to know better where we stand.  And how we shall move forward.”  

To make a careful strategy.  “You want to see all of the chess board, in other words?” she asked.  

“I would settle for seeing the square in front of me, at this point,” he said with a smile.

A sharp realization rang through her like a bell.  His smile was wistful and warm.  It was for her.  Despite what lay before them—looming, unknowable—he smiled at her.  

They could be Commander and Inquisitor.  They could be two people, together.  Each of them could be something more.  It seemed so clear to her now, when before it had been as muddy as the thoroughfares below.  The thought calmed her.  

Her new calm let forth a loud yawn.  She slumped into the chair, as Cullen’s smile widened.  

“Perhaps you should take some time to rest,” he said with gentle condescension.  

She shook her head.  “Later.  Runners are after me left and right.  Things to sign, people to displease.”  

His eyes glinted mischievously.  “I could hide you.”  She had seen humor in him before, but never mischief.  There was so much to learn about him.

“Where?” she asked.  “In your fur?”

He shook his head and pointed up.  “No one will look for you up there.”  

His bedloft.  The rumpled, cluttered loft with the broken roof, crumbling walls, and a bed.  The bed she had seen that night she came back from the Hinterlands, when he allowed her to see it.  The night her thoughts of him began to turn from a simple longing to something she could not acknowledge.  Until now.  She had stroked the turned wood of the frame then, and dared to brush her fingers against the worn wool blanket, her face burning.  

“All right,” she said.  Even now her face was hot, a flutter returned to her stomach.  It was kind of him, she thought.  Despite their new… intimacy, it was a kindness to hide her away.  

He would not join her there.  

But he walked with her to the ladder.  He paused beside her at the foot of it and placed his hand upon her back to guide her up.  He leaned close to her as she stepped onto the first rung, so close she could feel his warmth against her, his breath upon her skin.  

The loft had not changed much.  There were more and different books in disordered stacks on the floor, and the ivy had vined further along the walls, threatening to pierce the loose slats of the ceiling.  The bed was still simple, and unmade.  

Finn shrugged off her jacket and studied the room, taking the time she hadn’t that night.  There was a stand and washbasin in a corner spot where the late day sun filtered in.  Above the basin, a cracked and spotted mirror, scissors and razor and comb, and a jar of whatever grease he used to hide his curls.  She pictured him there in the mornings, washing away his difficult nights, cutting away at his stubble, and combing his unruly hair straight.  It made her smile to think of the effort he took.  Though there was something about the dark growth of beard against his skin, and the pale wheat curls that fell loose across his forehead, that stirred something within her.  

Perhaps, simply, it was what he was, when the uniform fell away.

And here was his bed.  Finn bent to unlace her boots, and place them gently on the floor.  It was quiet below, the only sound the soft scratch of quill on parchment, but she  _was_  trying to hide.  The slats in the bedstead creaked and rattled when she sat.  She steadied herself on the lumpy mattress.  How often she had imagined what it would feel like to lay upon this bed, alone and waiting for him, or next to him.  She eased her legs up and stretched out as quietly as possible.  Her head nestled into the flat bunch of pillows, against the rough wool blanket. 

There was a scent here, leather and ink and sweat and fur.  She had smelled it before.  It was him.  

She faced the broken barrel near the bed.  There was a candle there, and a few bottles—the wine she had given him, the herb jar, the tincture she handed him the night before.  All empty, but he kept them close.  Something fluttered between her ribs, and she breathed into it, let it spread, warm and welcome.  

Her eyes drifted shut as she gazed upon the broken roof slats, listened to the breeze shuffle through the dead leaves, and the quiet scratches of Cullen writing at his desk.  

Then a loud crack, as one of his office doors shot open.

“Cullen,”  Cassandra said, her voice clear and urgent.  “Where is the Inquisitor?  She is needed to sign an accord that must be flown out as soon as possible.”  

Finn held her breath and listened, but there was only a pause, and a soft questioning murmur from Cullen.  What would he tell her?  

“I’ve not seen the Inquisitor in some time,” he finally said, stiff and formal, as though he’d had to consult himself on the answer.  She stifled a laugh.  He was such a poor liar.  “Have you looked in the garden?”

Cassandra said nothing, but Finn heard her bootheels knock against the stone floor.  Pacing, slowly.  She must have been, Finn imagined, studying Cullen.  

“Someone saw the two of you on the battlements earlier.”  A few more steps.  “Talking,” she said, though her tone was guarded.  Talking was not what she meant.  Finn shut her eyes and covered her mouth, recalling the scout who interrupted them.  And had surely passed on what he saw.  

Cullen made no sound at all.  Likely he was staring at Cassandra, willing himself not to blush, and likely he was failing at that.  “Well… that was hours ago.”  He sounded like a child telling a fib.  

After a pause, more pacing, more clacking of Cassandra’s boots.  Then she stopped.  “I see.  I will look in the garden, as you suggest,” she said, her voice clipped and sarcastic.  “If you see her, let her know she is needed.”  

Cullen began to speak, and then stopped.  There was no sound.  Then, low and pleading, he asked, “Can it not wait until tomorrow?  Yesterday was…” He broke off with a sigh.  “She needs rest.”  Finn wondered if he knew she could hear him, hear the tenderness in his voice.  

Cassandra did not respond but Finn could hear leather rustling, as though she were arranging herself, straightening, folding her arms.  She stepped toward the desk, her boots softly scraped the stone.  “All right,” she answered softly.  “I will do what I can.”  

A few steps toward the door, then it opened and shut.  Cassandra had not waited for a response.  Cullen had not thanked her.  It must have passed between them in a moment, Finn thought, a silent understanding in each others’ eyes.  She would have liked to have seen it.  

Instead, she was here in his bed.  Happy.  Hiding from everyone in the cool loft made her happy.  That Cullen was aiding and instigating her escape, that made her happy.  What began between them this morning, the laughter they could share now, the weight that lifted from her… happy.

As her eyes became heavy, she held the worn blanket between her fingers, imagining soft blond curls.    

***

When Finn blinked her eyes open, she was warm and comfortable, burrowed between pillows and smelling of him.  The sky, through the broken roof, was dark.  The broken roof reminded her where she was.  The loft was dimly lit by candleglow, and deep shadows danced in her periphery.

Cullen sat in a battered chair beyond the makeshift table, reading a book.  He was out of his uniform, in a linen undershirt and leather trousers.  His bare feet rested atop a broken box, rocking it back and forth.  He held the book close to his face and read with concern and concentration.  He was so gentle this way, the hard edges of armor and weapons gone.  

She turned onto her side to face him.  When the bed shifted, he looked up from his book.  

“Ah, you’re awake,” he said, and placed the book, open pages down, onto the floor, smiling.  

She curled the blanket closer to her and yawned.  “How long have I been sleeping?”

“A few hours, at most.”  He gazed at her, and she thought he may have been storing away the image of her in his bed, or perhaps he was indulging in some thought, however unlikely, that he might join her there.  “Are you hungry?”  He reached toward the floor, and standing with a grunt brought her a platter.  

It was from the dining hall, stacked with fatty, charred meat, bright carrots and jewel red beets roasted in butter, and dark seeded bread.  “This isn’t your dinner, is it?” she asked.  Her stomach rumbled.

He shook his head.  “The cook is always willing to give me extra.  Either I remind her of someone dear, or I look quite ill,” he said with a laugh.  Her heart warmed at the thought that others wanted to care for him, too.  She would have to thank the cook.  He poured her a cup of water.    

“Thank you,” she said quietly. He nodded, and sat again in his chair.  

Finn began to pick at the food, and looked from the platter to him.  She had not intended to stay so long—she would eat, and then make her goodbyes.  Unless…    

“What are you reading?” she asked, nodding toward the book at his feet.  

“Ah.”  He looked surprised, seemed to have forgotten about it.  “It’s, ah, a collection of essays, I suppose, about all the places and people in Thedas.  I’ve, um,” he laughed, “I’ve read it many times but I find myself reaching for it often.”  

“Are they places you’ve seen yourself, or…”  She pierced a chunk of meat and carrot with her knife.  

“A few,” he said.  “There are so many places I’ve not yet seen.  But I feel I know them, somehow, from reading this.”  

“Like where?” she said, and took another bite.  

He smiled his half smile.  “The White Spire.  The mountain in the north, I mean.”  He flipped through the book, stoppng somewhere near the end, and began to read, his voice warm but formal.  It seemed like the voice he might have used for prayer, expectant and yearning.  He held the book as though it were a fragile thing.

_“Where the dense pines of the Arlathan Forest meet the turbulent, green Venefication Sea, the White Spire looms.  Its sharp peak is wrapped in snow; the warmth of the northern lands never reaches it.  It can be seen from all ships at sea, from the villages at its feet, from the grassy plains that dissolve into beaches.  In the deepest parts of the forest may one forget, if only for a moment, that it rests there peacefully, touching both sky and land.  Thus the tower in Val Royeaux was named for this steadfastness and strength, but the Maker’s natural creation is more beautiful, and everlasting.”_

When he finished he looked up with a smile.  Finn had not taken her eyes from him, his careful finger following the text as he read, his soft lips—and now she knew they were soft—spoke the words he had read so many times.  She swallowed the last she could of her dinner, her heart thumping, her hands trembling.  She thanked him for reading, and put the platter down on the floor, in a dusty space between the wall and the bed.  

“Finished?”  He went to his bedside barrel, picked up a small paper-wrapped lump, and sheepishly handed it to her.  “I saved these for you, as well.” 

Inside the paper were two golden cookies, dense with vanilla, topped with sparkling sugar.

“If you want them,” he said.  It was not her custom to eat things such as this, but…  She bit into one, the buttery sweetness near overwhelming.  She coughed as she chewed.  “I think,” she said, her mouth full, “these may be too sweet for me.”  

“Truly?” He looked like a surprised puppy.  “I apologize, they are my favorites.  I should not have assumed.”  

She swallowed and handed him the lumpy package.  “You have them, then.”  

He stared at her again as if he were memorizing her here, hands outstretched with half-eaten cookies, and the thought made her laugh.  He laughed, too, and sat beside her on the bed, taking the package from her hands.  The bed shifted and squeaked.

He took the cookie she had rejected and stuffed it into his mouth whole.  “You don’t seem too sorry I didn’t like them,” she teased.  “Was this your plan all along?”

Cullen looked at her with mock reproach.  “How could you possibly think that of me?” he mumbled, mouth full of cookie.  

“Just a hunch,” she said.  He narrowed his eyes and bit into the other cookie.  

She looked down at her feet, which hung from the bed, and his a few inches away, set upon the floor.  She could see the hairs on his toes, the pale skin of his foot, up to where the dark shadow of his trousers covered his leg.  They had sat this close together before.  Closer, even.  They had kissed, and confessed.  It was hard to fathom the change that had taken place between them.  They were no longer simply colleagues, not merely friends.  What were they?  Her hand shook as she set it on the bed between them.  Whatever they had been before no longer mattered.  There was only going forward now.

Her fingers brushed the top of the worn quilt between them.  She felt a heat settling between them, an expectation, a question.  Her breath was shallow.  “You know,” she said, her face warming, “this is not exactly how I imagined ending up in your bed.”  Though she meant to sound playful, her voice trembled.  

She sensed his eyes on her, felt his hand near hers on the bed.  His fingers stretched and spread to cover her hand.  “What did you imagine?” he whispered.  He took her hand in his and pressed it against his stomach.  “Show me.”  

His voice was a breath.  She could not tell whether he was commanding or begging.  Her fist closed around the loose linen of his shirt, and she pulled herself toward him.  

He cupped her jaw, and his eyes roamed her face for only a moment before he kissed her.  

A brightness sparked in her chest.  Now she could breathe into his skin again, feel his mouth press and pull against hers.  She could feel his need for her, and her own, veil the both of them.  The cluttered loft, the castle around them, faded into nothing.  She loosened her grip on his shirt, and reached for him.  Their hands stroked and searched.  

When the kiss broke, they leaned upon each other.  Even as she held him, her grip tight around his arm, Finn knew she needed to ask him.  “I—” she began, but she was afraid to say it.  She let go of him, and turned away, though her hand lingered on the bed, near his thigh.  

“Don’t go,” he said.  His voice was hoarse.        

She stared at the edge of the loft floor, where the ladder’s first rung peeked over the side.  “Are you sure?” she asked.  It had only been the night before that he was so unsure, so fearful.  And she had been so careless.  She would not risk that again.

His arm wrapped around her, as it had last night.  She felt his breath hot against her ear.  “Yes,” he said.  

If she asked, she would be asking too much.  The spell would break.  But she had to be certain now of what he wanted.  “What changed?”  

His shoulders rose and fell with his breath.  “I needed to know.”  Rough fingertips pressed into her skin.  “To know that you feel what I feel.”  

The strange brightness ripped through her again.  Her chest ached, her blood coursed.  She wanted to shout, or sob.  All she could do was nod.   _Yes, yes, yes._   She bit her lip hard, and her hand found his thigh, the thick leather of his trousers soft under her fingers.  

He slid the strap of her undershirt from her shoulder, and bent to brush his lips over her skin.  He kissed the dip of her clavicle, grazed his teeth along the bone.  She catalogued each touch to remember later.

The rough-hewn laces at the top of his shirt loosed easily, and she parted the collar, raking her fingers into the thick hair on his chest.  She leaned in to feel it, the unfamiliar bristling, against her face.  She did the same with the coarse stubble at his neck, so much sharper, and took in the scent of him she had found in his bed.  Here, upon his skin, it was strong and warm, like him.  

It was as though they had lost all common language, and had to find a new way to speak: searching looks, grunts of encouragement, licks and kisses and sighs.  Moving the other’s hands to the parts that wanted touching, spreading the other’s fingers across their own skin.  Unlacing, unbuttoning.  

With each piece of clothing dismissed, she saw more of him.  His skin was even paler beneath his clothes, dusted with dark blond hair all over, colored here and there by a rosy flush.  It was soft and feverish, and it yielded little at her hands’ pressure.  He was more lean than she had thought.  Her imaginings had been all blurry bodies, breaths and moans.  Here he was real, and she could feel the ridges of his ribs, a sharp elbow, the lines of muscle in his arms and his stomach.  

And as he saw her further, he searched her intensely, that look in his eyes again of memorization, of study.  But now he also touched, mapping her curves and her bones with his fingers, as the flush on his skin deepened.

When their clothes were gone, when they faced each other on the bed, he held her hand, and found his voice again.

“What do you want?”

What she wanted was to give in to everything she felt, everything she had denied, what had fixed itself in her heart.  What she wanted was to touch him, everywhere, to hold him and feel him move under her hands.  What she wanted was to lay him down upon the bed and taste every inch of his skin.  

What she did was look into his eyes, cradle his neck, and caress his jaw with her thumb.  With her other hand, she stroked his chest, felt his hammering heart answer the drumbeat of her own.  

He did not move, but watched her, and waited.  She leaned in to kiss him, just opening her mouth to lick his lips.  His tongue met hers there, more tentative.  Her fingers vined into the curls on his chest and into his hair, stroking his scalp.  

The arms that had been stiff at his sides now reached up to hold her, to press their bodies together.  As he brought her close, she swung her leg over his.  He groaned into her mouth as she lowered herself onto his thighs.  Heat swelled from his body onto hers.  Where their skin met, it burned.  His fingers stroked and pressed into her back, and he tugged at her bottom lip with his teeth.  

She wanted what she had imagined so many nights, the solid weight of him pressed upon her, so she turned onto her back, gripped his neck, and dragged him along.  But he leaned over her, one knee between her legs, and slid a hand up her side, his eyes fluttering shut.  He bent to kiss her neck, to lick at the edge of her jaw.  The wet tongue and sharp stubble made her shiver and moan beneath him.  She pulled him down closer, felt him shudder against her, felt his cock hard and hot on her thigh.  

Then he lifted away from her, and she protested with a desperate whine.  He only answered with a sigh, and a hand caressing a line from between her breasts, to the soft swell of her stomach, down to the crook of her knee—and then back, upward, inward.  She lay still, hands pressed into the bed, panting and staring.  She wanted everything faster, all at once, to feel him everywhere.  But he slowed her, his brow tense with focus, his mouth tight with nerves.  

He bent toward her again, lower.  He sniffed against her inner thigh, and his feathery curls brushed her skin.  His hand moved into the coarser curls between her legs, stroking, teasing.  

When his fingers reached her folds, he breathed in sharply and looked up at her, flushed red.  The tension left his face, and he gazed at her in sweet wonder.  He leaned forward over her, kissed her cheekbone, and nipped at her earlobe as he continued to explore her.  His hot breath echoed in her ear and his fingers moved up and down, sometimes clumsy and drifting, sometimes stroking exactly where she wanted.  Her body arched beneath him.  

He slipped a finger inside her and they both moaned.  He began to swirl and pump in and out of her, slowly.  Her eyes clamped shut.  Her arms, so heavy, weakly reached for him.  One hand lifted to cup the back of his head, the other stroked his lower back, and she could just reach down to knead his buttock.  He grunted at her touch there, and added another finger, bringing his thumb to circle her nub.  

Her moans caught in the back of her throat as his touch shuddered through her.  Her toes grasped at the worn sheets on his bed, both her hands clutched him tighter, her fingers pulled at his hair.  He whispered to her while she writhed beneath him, but it was mostly lost on her.  The low buzz of his sweet voice in her ear, and his soft licks and kisses, were enough.  His fingers curved into her, the pressure increased.  

She wanted this to last, tried to remember every detail of this, their first night together: how his sweat smelled like leather, that his hair curled softly around her fingers like new grass, that he gasped and whispered, “Ellana.”

Heat began to spread from her center, and she panted, grunting, whispering his name as she came close.  He pressed his body to hers as he stroked her his lips and tongue on her neck.  She shivered and jerked beneath him.  She gripped the bed as she felt a hot shock in every part of her body at once, like she had been caught in a crossfire of chain lightning.  It surged through her over and over.  He slowed his fingers as her body jerked with its final spasms.  She opened her eyes but couldn't focus them, could only feel him nudge her legs apart wider, feel him massage her hips and slide a hand up her body to cup her face.  

He tipped her chin down.  She found her focus.  His hazy, expectant eyes searched her face and he brushed his fingers against her cheek.  She felt the hand on her hip fall between them.  He held his cock in his palm, slowly stroking.  His breath quick and hard, he whispered, "Do you want me, Ellana?"  

She released the bedsheets from her weak grip and held him, kneading his shoulder blades.  "Yes," she said.  Her voice shook.  "I want you, yes, yes.”  She kissed his neck, his shoulder, buried her face in his chest.  She was afraid to look in his eyes.  She thought she would cry.

He kissed her temple, brushed her wild hair aside.  With his other hand, he rubbed the tip of his length against her.  He whimpered, and she felt his back tremble under her hands.  Slowly he entered her, gasping, and she grunted, biting her lip, as he stretched her.  He inched forward, silent but for his shaky breath.  She held her breath as he filled her fully.  Once she felt him stop moving, felt the soft thatch of dark curls at his groin brush her mound, she breathed again.  

He arched over her, pushing up on his hands, and kissed her exposed cheek.  "Are you all right?" he whispered.  "I'm not hurting you, am I?"  Her eyes were held tightly shut, and she shook her head.  But she wanted to see what he looked like now, how he looked inside her.

His eyes were clouded and dark, his skin flushed red from his cheeks to his chest, the tip of his tongue peeked between his parted, wet lips as he panted.  It was indecent.  And yet he was still all sweetness.  His eyes softened, and she sensed him will her to hear so many unspoken things.  It was an image she wanted to remember.

She smiled at him, and dragged her hands down his back to grip his backside, squeezing and pulling him closer.  The first of his thrusts was careful but insistent, then he drew away slowly.  The feel of him moving inside her made her dizzy, and her head rolled back.  He bent down again and licked her neck, moaning against her skin as he thrust deeply into her again.

His eyes roamed her body, taking in her throat, her breasts, her stomach, her eyes as she rolled her hips up, meeting his thrusts.  He steadied himself on one hand and brought the other to weakly grasp her shoulder, her breasts.  His touch was so hot on her skin, she hissed and ground harder against him.  He squeezed her breast and rubbed his palm against her hard nipple.  She hummed with pleasure at his wild touch, feeling him everywhere.  

She kneaded his buttocks, moaning under him as he thrust faster.  He grunted as he lost the balance on his hand.  His sweat-streaked chest pressed against her breasts with each thrust.  She wrapped her arms around his neck, and squeeze her legs around his thrusting backside.  When she crossed her feet behind him, locking him in her grip, he moaned.

She threaded her fingers into his hair.  ”Cullen," she whispered, and at hearing his name his eyes seemed to roll back in bliss.  She stroked his stubbled cheek, and took in his dewy eyelashes, the sweat at his temples, his sweet flushed face.

He kissed her, his lips so soft and warm, and she tasted the sweat beading on his upper lip.  She held his head between her hands and kissed the sweat from his stubble, licked a line up his ragged scar.  He whimpered and kissed her deeply, his tongue filling her mouth.  

The heat and hunger swelled inside her again.  She slid a hand between them.  He let out a shaky groan when he felt her finger and his thrusts became erratic.  She stroked herself, squeezing him as the pressure built, one hand around the back of his neck.  Her vision blurred.

A few short, sharp moans, a deep growl and he thrust shallow and slow, while she found a frantic rhythm.  He looked into her eyes as he groaned harshly, his body rigid and hot.  He seemed to long for her even then.  

She closed her eyes, and felt him move inside her, felt his hands hold her steady, felt his hairy thighs brushing her skin as he thrust lazily into her.  Her body curled beneath him, around him, and everything went black.  

When she opened her eyes, he was still there, still holding her, still gazing at her with awe and doubt and questions and yearning.  

He smiled at her, his curls darkened with sweat and stuck to his forehead, his neck and cheeks red.  He caressed her shoulder, brushed the hair from her damp neck, and rolled onto his side, pulled her close and kissed her forehead.  She lay her head against his chest, drifted her hands along his hip, and breathed.  Their hearts slowed and calmed together.

And what she had planted so deeply it would never reach the light—now it took root, blooming and wild.  


End file.
